Round the World with The Boy Journalists: I

PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS

FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER

[Illustration: "NOT THAT WAY--TWO MORE STEPS, BOY, AND YOU ARE DEAD". ]

By FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER

Round the World with The Boy Journalists PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS HUNTING HIDDEN TREASURE IN THE ANDES

Romance-History of America IN THE DAYS BEFORE COLUMBUS THE QUEST OF THE WESTERN WORLD

NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS

BY FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER

Author of "Hunting Hidden Treasure in the Andes, " "In the Days BeforeColumbus, " "The Quest of the Western World, " "The Aztec-Hunters, " "TheBoy with the U. S. Census, " etc. 

_Illustrated by_ C. A. FEDERER

NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I PAGEAMERICAN ALL THROUGH 11

CHAPTER IIWHERE BLACK MEN RULE 27

CHAPTER IIITHE BLOOD-STAINED CITADEL 47

CHAPTER IVTHE GHOST OF CHRISTOPHE 66

CHAPTER VTHE ISLE OF THE BUCCANEERS 81

CHAPTER VIA CUBAN REBEL 99

CHAPTER VIIA NOSE FOR NEWS 117

CHAPTER VIIITHE POISON TREES 135

CHAPTER IXTHE HURRICANE 155

CHAPTER XTHE LAKE OF PITCH 177

CHAPTER XITHE MORNING OF DOOM 196

CHAPTER XIIA CORSAIR'S DEATH 217

CHAPTER XIIITHE HUNGRY SHARK 231

CHAPTER XIVTRAPPED! 242

ILLUSTRATIONS

"NOT THAT WAY--TWO MORE STEPS, BOY, AND YOU _Frontispiece_ARE DEAD" PAGEFOR A HUNDRED FEET THEY FELL AND STUART 72CLOSED HIS EYES IN SICKENING DIZZINESS

HIS VISION DISTORTED BY THE VENOM-VAPOR OF THE 144POISON TREES, THE LAND-CRABS SEEMED OFENORMOUS SIZE AND THE NEGRO WHO CAME TORESCUE HIM APPEARED AS AN OGRE

ABOVE THE HOARSE SHOUTS OF RUFFIANS AND JACK-TARS, 224ROSE TEACH'S MURDEROUS WAR CRY

PLOTTING IN PIRATE SEAS

CHAPTER I

AMERICAN ALL THROUGH

The tom-tom throbbed menacingly through the heavy dark of the Haitiannight. 

Under its monotonous and maddening beat, Stuart Garfield movedrestlessly. 

Why had his father not come back? What mystery lay behind?

Often though the boy had visited the island, he had never been able toescape a sensation of fear at that summons of the devotees of Voodoo. Tonight, with the mysterious disappearance of his father weighingheavily on his spirits, the roll of the black goatskin drum seemed tomock him. 

Hippolyte, the giant negro who had been their guide into thisback-country jungle, rocked and grimaced in balance with the rhythm. 

"Why are they beating that drum, Hippolyte?" demanded Stuart, suddenly. 

"Tonight the night of the Full Moon, Yes, " was the answer. "AlwaysVoodoo feast that night. Often, queer things happen on night of FullMoon, Yes!"

Stuart turned impatiently to the door, as much to get his eyes away fromthe hypnotic swaying of Hippolyte as to resume his watch for his father. The negro's reference to "queer things" had added to the boy'suneasiness. 

Little though Stuart knew about his father's affairs, he was aware thathis investigations dealt with matters of grave importance to the UnitedStates. Ever since Mr. Garfield had resigned his position in the U. S. Consular Service and left the post in Cuba, where he had stayed so manyyears, he had kept a keen eye on international movements in the WestIndies. 

Mr. Garfield was an ardent and flaming patriot. He believed the MonroeDoctrine with a conviction that nothing could shake. He regarded all theislands of the West Indies as properly under the sheltering wing of theUnited States. He looked with unfriendly eye upon the possession ofcertain of the islands by England, France and Holland, and especiallydistrusted the colonies of European powers upon South American andCentral American shores. 

Stuart was even more intense in his patriotism. He had not lived in theUnited States since early childhood, and saw the country of the Starsand Stripes enhaloed by romance. 

Though Stuart had been brought up in Cuba, all his tastes ran to thingsAmerican. He had learned to play pelota, and was a fair player, but therare occasions when he could get a game of baseball suited him farbetter. He cared nothing for books unless they dealt with the UnitedStates, and then he read with avidity. Western stories fired hisimagination, the more so because the life they described was sodifferent from his own. 

Stuart was not the type of boy always seeking a fight, but, beneath hissomewhat gentle brown eyes and dark hair, there was a square aggressivechin, revealing that trait of character known as a "terrible finisher. "It took a good deal to start Stuart, but he was a terror, once started. Any criticism of the United States was enough to get him going. HisCuban schoolmates had found that out, and, whenever Stuart was around, the letters "U. S. " were treated with respect. 

This square chin was aggressively thrust forward now, as the boy lookedinto the night. There was trouble in the air. He felt it. Deeper downthan the disturbed feelings produced by the tom-tom, he sensed aprescience of evil on its way. 

When, therefore, a figure emerged from the forest into the clearing, andStuart saw that this figure was not his father, but that of a negro, theboy stiffened himself. 

"You--Stuart?" the newcomer queried. 

"Yes, " replied the boy, "that's my name. "

The negro hardly hesitated. He walked on, though Stuart was full in thedoorway, jostled him aside roughly, and entered. This attitude towardthe white man, unheard of anywhere else, is common in up-country Haiti, where, for a century, the black man has ruled, and where the white manis hated and despised. 

A hard stone-like gleam came into Stuart's eyes, but even his mountingrage did not blind him to the fact that the negro was twice his size andthree times as muscular. Nor did he forget that Hippolyte was in thehut, and, in any case of trouble, the two blacks would combine againsthim. 

The negro who had pushed him aside paid no further attention to the boy, but entered into a rapid-fire conversation with Hippolyte. Stuart couldfollow the Haitian French dialect quite well, but there were so manyhalf-hidden allusions in the speech of the two men that it was easy forhim to see that they were both members of some secret band. 

The intruder was evidently in some authority over Hippolyte, for heconcluded:

"Everything is well, Yes. Do with the boy, as was arranged. "

So saying, he cast a look at Stuart, grinned evilly, and left the hut. The boy watched him until his powerful figure was lost to view in theforest. 

Then he turned to Hippolyte. 

"What does all this mean!" he demanded, as authoritatively as he could. 

For a moment Hippolyte did not answer. He looked at the boy with areflection of the same evil grin with which the other had favored thewhite boy. 

A quick choke came into the boy's throat at the change in the negro'smanner. He was in Hippolyte's power, and he knew it. But he showed nevera quiver of fear as he faced the negro. 

"What does it all mean?" he repeated. 

"It is that you know Manuel Polliovo?"

Stuart knew the name well. His father had mentioned it as that of aconspirator who was in some way active in a West Indian plot. 

"I have heard of him, " the boy answered. 

"Manuel--he send a message, Yes. He say--Tell Stuart he must go awayfrom Haiti, at once. His father gone already. "

"What does that mean!" exclaimed Stuart. The first words of the warninghad frightened him, but, with the knowledge that his father was indanger, the fighting self of him rose to the surface, and his fearpassed. 

"How?" returned the negro, not understanding. 

"That my father has gone already?"

Hippolyte shrugged his shoulders with that exaggeration of the Frenchshrug common in the islands. 

"Maybe Manuel killed him, " came the cheerful suggestion. "Jules, whotell me just now, says Manuel, he have the air very wicked and verypleased when he tell him. "

Stuart doubted this possibility. Ever since the American occupation ofHaiti, in 1915, murder had become less common. The boy thought it morelikely that the missing man had been captured and imprisoned. But justwhat could Manuel be doing if he dared such drastic action? The ladwished that he knew a little more about his father's plans. 

A small revolver was in his pocket, and, for one wild moment, Stuartthought of making a fight for it and going to the rescue of his father. But his better sense prevailed. Even supposing he could get the drop onthe negro--which was by no means sure--he could not mount guard on himperpetually. Moreover, if he got near enough to try and tie him up, onesweep of those brawny arms would render him powerless. 

"And if I do not go?" he asked. 

"But you do go, " declared Hippolyte. "It is I who will see to that, Yes!"

"Was it Manuel who sent you the money?"

"Ah, the good money!" The negro showed his teeth in a wide grin. "Manuel, he tell Jules to find boy named Stuart. If you big, tie you andtake you to the forest; if little, send you away from the island. "

This was one point gained, thought Stuart. Manuel, at least, did notknow what he looked like. 

"I suppose I've got to go to Cap Haitien. "

"But, Yes. "

"And when?"

"But now, Yes!"

"It's a long walk, " protested Stuart. "Twenty miles or more. "

"We not walk, No! Get mules near. Now, we start. "

The boy had hoped, in some way, to get the negro out of the hut and tomake a bolt for the woods where he might lie hidden, but this suddenaction prevented any such ruse. He turned to the table to put into hisknapsack the couple of changes of clothing he had brought. There was noway for him to take his father's clothes, but the boy opened the largerknapsack and took all the papers and documents. 

"See here, Hippolyte, " he said. "I give you all these clothes. I takethe papers. "

The negro grinned a white-toothed smile at the gift. He cared nothingabout the papers. He would do what Jules had paid him to do, and nomore. 

As they left the hut, it seemed to Stuart that the nerve-racking beatingof the tom-tom sounded louder and nearer. They walked a mile or so, then, as Hippolyte suggested, at a small half-abandoned plantation, theyfound mules. Once mounted, the negro set off at breakneck speed, caringnothing about the roughness of the road, all the more treacherousbecause of the dead-black of the shadows against the vivid green-silverpatches where the tropical moonlight shone through. 

"What's the hurry?" clamored Stuart, who could see no reason for thismad and reckless riding. 

"The dance stop at dawn! I want to be back, Yes!"

They galloped on as before. 

A few miles from the town, Stuart snatched at an idea which flashed uponhim suddenly. 

"Hippolyte, " he said. "You want to get back for the voodoo dance?"

"But, Yes!"

"You'll be too late if you take me into town. See. "

He showed his watch and held out a twenty-five gourde bill. 

"Suppose I give you this. It's all the money I have. You can tell Julesto tell Manuel that you saw me get on board a steamer in Cap Haitien, and that you saw the steamer start. Then you can be back in plenty oftime for the dance. "

Hippolyte hesitated. The temptation was strong. 

"Unless, of course, " the boy added carelessly, "you like this white man, Manuel, so much. "

An expression of primitive hate wrote itself on the ebon face, apeculiarly malignant snarl, as seen by moonlight. 

"I hate all whites!" he flashed. 

"Then why should you do a good turn for this Manuel?"

The instincts of a simple honesty struggled with the black's desire. Apassing gust of wind brought the rhythmic beating of the tom-tomclearer to their ears. It was the one call that the jungle blood of thenegro could not resist. He held out his hand for the money. 

"You go into Cap Haitien alone?" he queried, thickly. 

"Yes, I'll promise that, " the boy agreed. 

He dismounted, swung his knapsack on his back, and handed the reins ofthe mule to Hippolyte, who sat, still uncertain. But the negro's headwas turned so that he could hear the throbbing of the drum, and, with ananswering howl that went back to the days of the African jungle, heturned and sped back over the rough trail at the same headlong speed hehad come. 

"If he doesn't break his neck!" commented Stuart, as he saw him go, "it'll be a wonder!"

There were yet a couple of hours before dawn, and Stuart plodded alongthe trail, which could lead to no other place than Cap Haitien. Hewalked as fast as he could, hoping to reach the city before daylight, but the first streaks of dawn found him still nearly two miles from thetown. He did not want to enter the town afoot by daylight. That would betoo conspicuous, and there were plans germinating in the boy's headwhich needed secrecy. He must hide all day, and get into Cap Haitien thenext night. 

Stuart slipped off the road and wriggled his way through the densethicket, seeking a place where there was light enough to read, and yetwhere the foliage was dense enough to prevent him being seen by anyonepassing that way. 

A few moments' search only were required before he found the ideal spot, and he threw himself down on a pile of leaves with great zest. That mulehad been hard riding. 

"First of all, " he said to himself, half aloud, "I've got to find outwhere I'm at. Then I'll maybe be able to figure out what I ought to do. "

Stuart's mind was not so quick as it was strong. He was a straightup-and-down honest type of fellow, and thoroughly disliked the craftyand intriguing boy or man. He began cautiously, but got warmed up as hewent on, and made a whirlwind finish. 

It was characteristic of him, thus, not to plunge into any wild anddesperate attempt to rescue his father, until he had time to puzzle outthe situation and work out a plan of action. He began by reading all thepapers and documents he had taken from his father's knapsack. This was along job, for the papers were full of allusions to subjects he did notunderstand. It was nearly noon before he had digested them. 

Then he lay on his back and looked up through the tracery of leavesoverhead, talking aloud so that the sound of his own voice might makehis discoveries clearer. 

"The way I get it, " he mused, "Father's on the trail of some plotagainst the United States. This plot is breaking loose, here, in Haiti. This Manuel Polliovo's in it, and so is a negro General, Cesar Leborge. There's a third, but the papers don't say who he is. 

"Now, " he went on, "I've two things to do. I've got to find Father andI've got to find out this plot. Which comes first?"

He rolled over and consulted one or two of the papers. 

"Looks like something big, " he muttered, kicking his heels meditatively. "I wonder what Father would say I ought to do?"

At the thought, he whirled over and up into a sitting posture. 

"If it's dangerous to the U. S. , " he said, "that's got to come first. And I don't worry about Father. He can get out of any fix without me. "

The glow of his deep-hearted patriotism began to burn in the boy's eyes. He sat rigid, his whole body concentrated in thought. 

"If Manuel Polliovo has captured Father, " he said aloud, at last, "itmust have been because Father was shadowing him. That means that Manueldoesn't want to be shadowed. That means I've got to shadow him. Buthow?"

The problem was not an easy one. It was obvious that Stuart could notsleuth this Cuban, Manuel, without an instant guess being made of hisidentity, for white boys were rare in Haiti. If only he were not white. If only----

Stuart thumped on the ground in his excitement. 

Why could he not stain his skin coffee-color, like a Haitian boy? Ifsufficiently ragged, he might be able to pass without suspicion. Itmight be only for a day or two, for Stuart was sure that his fatherwould appear again on the scene very soon. 

This much, at least, he had decided. No one was going to plot againsthis country if he could help it. There was not much that he could do, but at least he could shadow one of the conspirators, and what he foundout might be useful to his father. 

This determination reached, the boy hunted for some wild fruit to stayhis appetite--he had nothing to eat since the night before--and settleddown for the rest of the afternoon to try and dig out the meaning of hisfather's papers, some of which seemed so clear, while to others he hadno clew. It was characteristic of the boy that, once this idea of menaceto the United States had got into his head, the thought of personaldanger never crossed his mind. The slightly built boy, small even forhis age, the first sight of whom would have suggested a serioushigh-school student rather than a sleuth, possessed the cool ferocity ofa ferret when that one love--his love of country--was aroused. 

His first step was clear. As soon as it was dark enough to cover hismovements, he would go to the house of one of his father's friends, alittle place built among the ruins of Cap Haitien, where they had stayedtwo or three times before. From references in some of the letters, Stuart gathered that his father had confidence in this man, though hewas a Haitian negro. 

As soon as the shadows grew deep enough, Stuart made his way through thehalf-grown jungle foliage--the place had been a prosperous plantationduring French occupation--and, a couple of hours later, using by-pathsand avoiding the town, he came to this negro's house. He tapped at thesame window on which his father had tapped, when they had come to CapHaitien a week or so before, and Leon, the negro, opened the door. 

"But, it is you, Yes!" he cried, using the Haitian idiom with itsperpetual recurrence of "Yes" and "No, " and went on, "and where isMonsieur your father?"

"I don't know, " answered Stuart, speaking in English, which he knew Leonunderstood, though he did not speak it. "I have missed him. "

"But where, and but how?" queried Leon, suddenly greatly excited. "Washe already going up to the Citadel?"

Stuart's face flushed with reflected excitement, but his eyes held thenegro's steadily. Leon knew more than the boy had expected he wouldknow. 

"No, " he replied, "I don't think so. I shall have to go. "

"It is impossible, impossible, Yes!" cried Leon, throwing up his handsin protest. "I told Monsieur your father that it was impossible for him. And for you----"

A graphic shrug completed the sentence. 

Stuart felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach, for he was no braverthan most boys. But the twist of his determination held him up. 

"Leon, " he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though he felt itsounded a little choked, "isn't there the juice of some root which willturn the skin brown, nearly black?"

"But, Yes, the plavac root. "

The Haitian peered at the boy. 

"You would make yourself a black man?" he continued. 

Stuart ignored argument. 

"Can you get some? Tonight? Right away?"

"Ah, well; you know--" Leon began. 

The boy interrupted him sharply. 

"If my father told you to get some, you would get it, " he declaredperemptorily. 

This was a shrewd guess, for, as a matter of fact, there were a numberof reasons why Leon should do what Mr. Garfield told him. The negro, whohad no means of finding how much or how little the boy knew, shruggedhis shoulders hugely, and, with a word of comment, left the house, carrying a lantern. He was back in half an hour with a handful of smallplants, having long fibrous roots. These he cut off, placed in a pot, covering them with water, and set the pot on the stove over a slow fire. 

"It will not come off the skin as easily as it goes on, No!" he warned. 

"Time enough to think about that when I want to take it off, " came theboy's reply. 

The decoction ready, Leon rubbed it in thoroughly into Stuart's skin. Itprickled and smarted a good deal at first, but this feeling ofdiscomfort soon passed away. 

"It won't rub off?" queried Stuart. 

Leon permitted himself a grim pleasantry. 

"Not against a grindstone!"

This positive assertion was as reassuring in one way as it wasdisquieting in another. Stuart did not want to remain colored for anindefinite period of time. In his heart of hearts he began to wonder ifhe had not acted a little more hastily, and that if he had asked forLeon's advice instead of ordering him around, he might have found somemilder stain. But it was too late to repent or retract now. His skin wasa rich coffee brown from head to foot, and his dark eyes and black hairdid not give his disguise the lie. 

"I'm going to bed, " he next announced, "and I want some ragged boy'sclothes by morning, Leon. Very ragged. Also an old pair of boots. "

"That is not good, " protested the Haitian, "every boy here goesbarefoot, Yes!"

Stuart was taken aback. This difficulty had not occurred to him. It wastrue. Not only the boys, but practically nine men out of ten in Haiti gobarefoot. This Stuart could not do. Accustomed to wearing shoes, hewould cut his feet on the stones at every step he took on the roads, orrun thorns into them every step he took in the open country. 

"I must have boots, " he declared, "but old ones. Those I've beenwearing, " he nodded to where they lay on the floor--for thisconversation was carried on with the boy wearing nothing but his newbrown skin--"would give me away at once. "

"I will try and get them, " answered Leon. His good-humored mouth openedin a wide smile. "Name of a Serpent!" he ejaculated, "but you are theimage of the son of my half-sister!"

At which saying, perhaps Stuart ought to have been flattered, since itevidenced the success of his disguise. But, being American, it ruffledhim to be told he resembled a negro. 

He went to bed, far from pleased with himself and rather convinced thathe had been hasty. Yet his last waking thought, if it had been put intowords, would have been:

"It's the right thing to do, and I'm going through with it!"

CHAPTER II

WHERE BLACK MEN RULE

Stuart was not the only person on the streets of Cap Haitien the nextmorning who was conscious of personal danger. Manuel Polliovo was ill atease. Bearing the secret that he bore, the Cuban knew that a hint of itwould bring him instant death, or, if the authorities had time tointervene, incarceration in a Haitian prison, a fate sometimes worsethan death. Even the dreaded presence of U. S. Marines would not holdthe negro barbarians back, if they knew. 

Manuel was by no means blind to his peril. He was relieved in thethought that the American, Garfield, was where he could not do him anyharm, but there were other dangers. Hence he was startled and jumpednervously, on hearing a voice by his elbow. 

"Do you want a guide, Senor?"

"A guide, Boy! Where to?"

The answer came clear and meaningly:

"To the Citadel of the Black Emperor!"

The Cuban grew cold, under the burning sun, and, professionalconspirator though he was, his face blenched. His hand instinctivelysought the pocket wherein lay his revolver. 

Yet he dare not kill. Five years of American occupation had bred a senseof law and order in the coast towns, at least, which had not been knownin Haiti for a century and more. Any violence would lead to inquiry, andManuel's record was not one which would bear investigation. 

How came this ragged Haitian urchin to know? Manuel's swift glance atStuart had shown him nothing but a Creole lad in clothes too big for himand a pair of boots fastened with string. The messenger meant nothing, it was the message which held menace. 

To the Cuban this apparently chance street encounter was ominous ofblack threat. It revealed treachery and might mean a trap. But fromwhence? Swiftly Manuel's keen brain, the brain of an arch-plotter, scanned the manifold aspects of this sudden threat. 

How much labor, how many wild adventures, what a series of dangers wouldStuart have escaped, had he but been able to read the thoughts of thatcrafty brain!

Did his fellow-conspirators want to get rid of him? So Manuel's doubtsran. Did they count on his shooting the boy, in a panic, and beinglynched for it, there and then, on the street of Cap Haitien? Or of hisbeing imprisoned, tried and executed for murder? Such a plot was notunlikely. 

But, if so, who had sent the boy?

Was Cesar Leborge playing him false? True, from that bull-necked, ferocious negro general, Manuel knew he could expect nothing butbrutality, envy and hate; but such a design as this boy's interventionseemed too subtle for the giant Creole's brain. Manuel accounted himselfmaster of the negro when it came to treachery and cunning. Moreover, heknew Leborge to be a sullen and suspicious character, little likely totalk or to trust anyone. 

What did the boy know? Manuel flashed a look at him. But Stuart was idlyfiddling in the dust with the toe of his ragged boot, and the Cuban'ssuspicions flashed to another quarter. 

Could the Englishman, Guy Cecil, be to blame? That did not seem any morelikely. Manuel was afraid of Cecil, though he would not admit it, evento himself. The Englishman's chill restraint, even in moments of themost tense excitement, cowed the Cuban. Never had he been able topenetrate into his fellow-conspirator's thoughts. But that Cecil shouldhave talked loosely of so vital, so terrible a secret? No. The graveitself was not more secretive than that quiet schemer, of whom nothingever seemed to be known. And to a negro boy! No, a thousand times, no!

Stay--was this boy a negro boy? Suspicion changed its seat in the wilyCuban's brain. That point, at least, he would find out, and swiftly. Helooked at his ragged questioner, still fiddling with his toe in thedust, and answered. 

"Well, " he said, "you can show me what there is to be seen in thisplace. But first I will go to the Café. No, " he continued, as the boyturned towards the new part of the town, built under American oversight, "not there. To the Café de l'Opéra. Go down the street and keep a fewsteps in front. "

Stuart obeyed. He had seen the first swift motion of the Cuban's hand, when he had been accosted, and had guessed that it was pistolwards. Itwas uncomfortable walking in front of a man who was probably aching toblow one's brains out. Nasty little cold shivers ran up and downStuart's back. But the tents of the U. S. Marines, in camp a littledistance down the beach, gave him courage. With his sublime faith in theUnited States, Stuart could not believe that he could come to any harmwithin sight of the Stars and Stripes floating from the flagstaff infront of the encampment. 

While Stuart was thus getting backbone from his flag, Manuel wasconcentrating his wits and experience on this problem which threatenedhim so closely. 

Was this boy a negro?

A life spent in international trickery on a large scale had made theCuban a good judge of men. He knew native races. He knew--what the whiteman generally ignores or forgets--that between the various black racesare mental differences as wide as between races of other color. He knewthat the Ewe negro is no more like the Riff in character, than thephlegmatic Dutchman resembles the passionate Italian. If a black, towhat race did this boy belong? Was he a black, at all?

The bright sun threw no reflected lights on the boy's skin, the textureof which was darker than that of a mulatto, and had a dead, opaque look, lacking the golden glow of mulatto skin. The lad's hair showed littlehint of Bantu ancestry and his feet were small. True, all this mightbetoken any of the Creole combinations common in Haiti, but the Cubanwas not satisfied. If the skin had been stained, now----

"Boy!" he called. 

Stuart looked around. 

"Here are some coppers for you. "

The boy slouched toward him, extended his hand negligently and the Cubandropped some three-centime pieces into it. 

Stuart mumbled some words of thanks, imitating, as far as he could, theHaitian dialect, but, despite his desire to act the part, feelingawkward in receiving charity. 

Manuel watched him closely, then, abruptly, bade him go on ahead. Thescrutiny had increased his uneasiness. 

This self-appointed guide was no negro, no mulatto, of that Manuel wassure. The money had been received without that wide answering grin ofpleasure characteristic in almost all negro types. Moreover, the palmsof the boy's hands were the same color as the rest of his skin. TheCuban knew well that a certain dirty pallor is always evident on thepalms of the hands of even the blackest negroes. 

The boy's reference to the "Citadel of the Black Emperor" showed that hewas aware of this secret meeting of conspirators. 

This was grave. 

More, he was disguised. 

This was graver still. 

Was this boy, too, afraid of Haiti, that savage land at the doors ofAmerica; that abode where magic, superstition and even cannibalism stilllurk in the forests; that barbarous republic where the white man isdespised and hated, and the black man dominates? That land where theonly civilizing force for a century has been a handful of Americanmarines!

That this boy was disguised suggested that he was in fear for his life;but, if so, why was he there? How did he come to know the pass-word ofthe conspiracy? For what mysterious reason did he offer himself as aguide to the haunted place of meeting?

Who was this boy?

Manuel turned into the Café de l'Opéra, a tumble-down frame shack with acorrugated iron roof, to order a cooling drink and to puzzle out thisutterly baffling mystery. 

The Cuban's first impulse was to flee. Had anything less imperious thanthis all-important meeting been before him, Manuel would have made hisescape without a moment's delay. 

Cap Haitien is no place for a white man who has fallen under suspicion. Of the four gateways into Haiti it is the most dangerous. In Jacamal, awhite man may be left alone, so long as he does not incur the enmity ofthe blacks; in Gonaive the foreign holders of concessions may protecthim; in Port-au-Prince, the capital, he is safeguarded by the potent armof the American marines; but, in the country districts back of CapHaitien, the carrion buzzards may be the only witnesses of his fate. And, to that back country, the Cuban must go. All this, Manuel knew, andhe was a shrewd enough man to dare to be afraid. 

Stuart squatted in the shadow of the building while the Cuban sippedfrom his glass. Thus, each doubting the other, and each fearing theother, they gazed over the busy desolation of Cap Haitien, a town unlikeany other on earth. 

Save for a small and recently rebuilt section in the heart of thetown--which boasted some 10, 000 inhabitants--flimsy frame houses rose inwhite poverty upon the ruins of what was once known as "the little Parisof the West Indies. " Of the massive buildings of a century ago, not oneremained whole. The great earthquake of 1842 did much toward theirdestruction; the orgy of loot and plunder which followed, did more; butthe chiefest of all agents of demolition was the black man's rule. 

The spacious residences were never rebuilt, the fallen aqueducts wereleft in ruins, the boulevards fell into disrepair and guinea-grassrioted through the cracked pavements. Back of the town the plantationswere neglected, the great houses fallen, while the present owners livedcontentedly in the little huts which once had been built for slaves. Theruthless hands of time, weather and the jungle snatched back "LittleParis, " and Cap Haitien became a huddled cluster of pitiful buildingsscattered among the rubbish-heaps and walls of a once-beautifulstone-built town. 

This appearance of desolation, however, was contradicted by the evidenceof commercial activity. The sea-front was a whirl of noise. 

The din of toil was terrific. Over the cobblestoned streets came roughcarts drawn by four mules--of the smallest race of mules in theworld--and these carts clattered down noisily with their loads ofcoffee-sacks, the drivers shouting as only a Haitian negro can shout. Atthe wharf, each cart was at once surrounded by a cluster of negroes, each one striving to outshout his fellows, while the bawling of thedriver rose high above all. Lines of negroes, naked to the waist, sackson their glistening backs, poured out from the warehouses like ants froman anthill, but yelling to out-vie the carters. The tiny car-line seemedto exist only to give opportunity for the perpetual clanging of thegong; and the toy wharf railway expended as much steam on its whistle ason its piston-power. 

Stuart had visited the southern part of Haiti with his father, especially the towns of Port-au-Prince and Jacamel, and he was struckwith the difference in the people. Cap Haitien is a working town and itspeople are higher grade than the dwellers in the southern part of therepublic. The south, however, is more populous. Haiti is thicklyinhabited, with 2, 500, 000 people, of whom only 5, 000 are foreigners, andof these, not more than 1, 000 are whites. The island is incrediblyfertile. A century and a quarter ago it was rich, and could be richagain. Its coffee crop, alone, could bring in ample wealth. 

To Stuart's eyes, coffee was everywhere. The carts were loaded withcoffee, the sacks the negroes carried were coffee-sacks, the shininggreen berries were exposed to dry on stretches of sailcloth in vacantlots, among the ruins on the sides of the streets. Haitian coffee isamong the best in the world, but the Haitian tax is so high that theproduct cannot be marketed cheaply, the American public will not pay thehigh prices it commands, and nearly all the crop is shipped to Europe. 

"Look at that coffee!" Stuart's father had exclaimed, just a weekbefore. "Where do you suppose it comes from, Stuart? From cultivatedplantations? Very little of it. Most of the crop is picked fromhalf-wild shrubs which are the descendants of the carefully planted andcultivated shrubs which still linger on the plantations establishedunder French rule, a century and a half ago. A hundred years of negropower in Haiti has stamped deterioration, dirt and decay on theisland. "

"But that'll all change, now we've taken charge of the republic!" haddeclared Stuart, confident that the golden letters "U. S. " would bringabout the millennium. 

His father had wrinkled his brows in perplexity and doubt. 

"It would change, my boy, " he said, "if America had a free hand. But shehasn't. "

"Why not?"

"Because, officially, we have only stepped in to help the Haitiansarrive at 'self-determination. ' The treaty calls for our aid for tenyears, with a possibility of continuing that protection for another tenyears. But we're not running the country, we're only policing it andadvising the Haitians as to how things should be handled. "

"Do you think they'll learn?"

"To govern themselves, you mean? Yes. To govern themselves in acivilized manner? No. I wouldn't go so far as to say that slavery orpeonage are the only ways to make the up-country Haitian negro work, though a good many people who have studied conditions here think so. 

"The program of the modern business man in Haiti is different: Make thenegro discontented with his primitive way of living, give him a tastefor unnecessary luxuries, teach him to envy his neighbor's wealth andcovet his neighbor's goods, and then make him work in order to earn themoney to gratify these wishes, and civilization will begin. 

"Mark you, Stuart, I don't say that I endorse this program, I'm onlytelling you, in half-a-dozen words, what it really is. It is sure, though, that when the black man rules, he relapses into savagery; whenhe obeys a white master, he rises toward civilization. "

Stuart remembered this, now, as he sat outside the café, and lookedpridefully at the tents of the U. S. Marines in the distance. Herealized that American improvements in the coast towns had not changedthe nature of the Haitian negro, or creole, as he prefers to be called. 

Under his father's instruction, the boy had studied Haitian history, andhe knew that the Spaniards had ruled by fear, the French had ruled byfear, the negro emperors and presidents had ruled by fear, and, underthe direct eye of the U. S. Marines, Haiti is still ruled by fear. In adim way--for Stuart was too young to have grasped it all--the boy feltthat this was not militarism, but the discipline necessary to anundeveloped race. 

Only the year before, Stuart himself had been through an experiencewhich brought the innate savagery of the Haitian vividly before hiseyes. He had been in Port-au-Prince when the Cacos undertook to raid thetown, seize the island, and sweep the United States Marines into thesea. And, as he had heard a Marine officer tell his father, but for achance accident, they might have succeeded. 

In October, 1919, Charlemagne Peralte, the leader of the Cacos, waskilled by a small punitive party of U. S. Marines. The Cacos may bedescribed as Haitian patriots or revolutionists, devotees of serpent andvoodoo worship, loosely organized into a secret guerilla army. Theynumber at least 100, 000 men, probably more. About one-half of the forceis armed with modern rifles. The headquarters of the Cacos is in themountain country in the center of the island, above the Plain ofCul-de-Sac, where no white influence reaches. No one who knew Haitianconditions doubted that revenge would be sought for Charlemagne's death, and all through the winter of 1919-1920, the Marines were on the alertfor trouble. 

The Cacos leadership had devolved upon Benoit, a highly educated negro, who had secured the alliance of "the Black Pope" and Chu-Chu, the twolieutenants of Charlemagne. Upon Benoit fell the duty of "chasing thewhite men into the sea" and exterminating the Americans, just asToussaint l'Ouverture drove the English, and Dessalines, Christophe andPétion drove the French, a century before. 

Nearly four years of American occupation had passed. That the purpose ofthe United States was purely philanthropic was not--and is not--believedby the vast majority of the Haitians. Though living conditions haveimproved vastly, though brigandage on the plains has ceased, and thoughterrorism has diminished, at heart only the Haitian merchants andjob-holders like the American occupation. The educated Creoles tolerateit. The semi-savages of the hills resent it. 

On January 16, some of the white men in Port-au-Prince noticed that theCreoles were excited and nervous. At the Café Bordeaux, at the SeasideInn, at the Hotel Bellevue, strange groups met and mysterious passwordswere exchanged. Sullen and latent hostility was changing fromsmouldering rancor to flaming hate. Port-au-Prince was ripe for revolt. 

Stuart remembered his father's return that night. 

"Son, " he had said, putting a revolver on the little table beside hisbed, "I hope you won't have to use this, but, at least, I've taught youto shoot straight. "

That night, Benoit, gathering up the local detachments of his forces, moved them in scattered groups through the abandoned plantations and offthe main roads to the outskirts of the city. He had over 1, 800 men withhim. Most had modern rifles. All had machetes. All over the island otherbands were in readiness, their orders being to wait until they heard ofthe fall of Port-au-Prince, when the massacre of all whites might begin. 

Benoit's plan was to take the city at daybreak. At midnight, he startedthree columns of 300 men each, from three directions. They wanderedinto the city by twos and threes, taking up positions. Their orderswere, that, at the firing of a gun at daybreak, when the stores opened, they were to rush through the business district, setting fireseverywhere and killing the white men and the gendarmerie. Benoitbelieved that, while his men could not withstand a pitched battle withthe Marines, they could sweep the town in guerilla fashion when theMarines were scattered here and there, putting out fires. Moreover, theCacos general was sure that, once a massacre of the whites was begun, race hatred would put all the black population on his side. 

Two o'clock in the morning came. Mr. Elliott, manager of a sugarrefinery at Hascoville, a suburb two miles out of the city, wassleepless, and a vague uneasiness possessed him. Thinking that the freshair might be beneficial, he went to a window and looked out. 

"Out of the myriad hissing, rustling and squawking noises of a tropicnight, he heard the unmistakable 'chuff-chuff-chuff' of a marchingcolumn of barefoot men. He made out a single-file column moving rapidlyacross a field, off the road. He made out the silhouetes of shoulderedrifles. Far off, under a yellow street lamp, he glimpsed a flash of ared shirt. That was enough. He telephoned to the Marine Brigade that theCacos were about to raid Port-au-Prince. 

"Benoit's bubble, " continued the report of the Special Correspondent ofthe _New York World_, "burst right there. Only about 150 of his 300'shock troops' had reached the market-place. No fires had been set. Thepeople were all in bed and asleep. There were no materials for a panic. 

"The Marines, in patrols and in larger formations, spread through thestreets swiftly to the posts arranged for emergency. Leslie Coombs, oneof the Marines, saw several men enter the market, where they had noright to be; he ran to the door and was set upon by machete men, whoslashed him and cut him down, but not until he had emptied hisautomatic. 

"The shooting and hand-to-hand fighting spread in a flash all throughthe business part of the city. The rest of the surprise detachment ofthe Cacos made a rush for the center of the city. One block was set onfire and burned. 

"The Marines deployed steadily and quickly. They put sputtering machineguns on the corners and cleaned the principal streets. There wasfighting on every street and alley of a district more than a milesquare. 

"The Cacos stood their ground bravely for a while, but their case washopeless. The American fire withered them. First those on the rim of thecity, and then those inside, turned their faces to the hills. The mainbody, realizing that the plan of attack was ruined, started a pell-mellretreat. 

"The Marines moved from the center of the city, killing every coloredman who was not in the olive-drab uniform of the gendarmerie. 

"As the sky turned pink and then flashed into blazing daylight, thefight became a hunt. On every road and trail leading from the city, Marine hunted Cacos. 

"One hundred and twenty-two dead Cacos were found in and about the city;bodies found along the line of retreat in the next few days raised thetotal of known dead to 176. There were numerous prisoners, among themthe famous chieftain, Chu-Chu. " It was a swift and merciless affair, but, as Stuart's father had commented, no one who knew and understoodHaitian conditions denied that it had been well and wisely done. 

Stuart had seen some of the fighting, and his father had pointed out tohim that Port-au-Prince is not the whole of Haiti, nor does one repulsequell a revolt. The boy knew, and the Cuban, watching him, knew that forevery man the Marines had slain, two had joined the Cacos and had swornthe blood-oath before the High Priest and the High Priestess (papaloiand mamaloi) of Voodoo. 

Revolt against the American Occupation, therefore, was an ever-presentdanger. Stuart wondered whether the negro who had been sent to him byManuel were a Cacos, and, if so, whether his father were a prisoneramong the Cacos. Manuel, for his part, wondered who this boy might be, who had darkened his skin in disguise. One thing the Cuban haddetermined and that was that he would not let the boy know that hisdisguise had been penetrated. None the less, he must find out, ifpossible, how the lad had come to know about the meeting-place of theconspirators. 

Finishing his drink, the Cuban rose, and, motioning to Stuart to precedehim, walked to the sparsely settled section between the commercialcenter of the town and the Marine encampment. When the shouts of thetoiling workers had grown faint in the distance, the Cuban stopped. 

"Boy!" he called. 

Stuart braced himself. He knew that the moment of his test had come. Hisheart thumped at his ribs, but he kept his expression from betrayingfear. He turned and faced the Cuban. 

"In my right-hand pocket, " said Manuel, in his soft and languorousvoice, "is a revolver. My finger is on the trigger. If you tell onelie--why, that is the end of you! Why did you mention the Citadel of theBlack Emperor?"

Stuart's heart gave a bound of relief. He judged, from Manuel's manner, that his disguise had not been guessed. Elated with this supposedsuccess, he commenced to tell glibly the tale he had prepared andstudied out the day before. 

"I wanted to give you a warning, " he said. 

The Cuban's gaze deepened. 

"Warning? What kind of a warning? From whom?"

"Cesar Leborge, " answered Stuart. He had judged from his father's papersthat the two were engaged in a conspiracy, and thought that he could donothing better than to provoke enmity between them. The proverb "Whenthieves fall out, honest men come by their own, " rang through his head. 

Manuel was obviously impressed. 

"What do you know about this?" he asked curtly. "Tell your story. "

"I hate Leborge, " declared Stuart, trying to speak as a negro boy wouldspeak. "He took away our land and killed my father. I want to kill him. He never talks to anybody, but he talks to himself. The other night Ioverheard him saying he 'must get rid of that Cuban at the Citadel ofthe Black Emperor. '

"So when I saw you here in Cap Haitien, I took a chance on it's beingyou he meant. If it hadn't been you, my asking you if you wanted a guidewouldn't have been out of the way. "

"You are a very clever boy, " said Manuel, and turned away to suppress asmile. 

Certainly, he thought, this boy was a very clumsy liar. Stuart had nevertried to play a part before, and had no natural aptitude for it. Hisimitation of the Haitian accent was poor, his manner lacked thealternations of arrogance and humility that the Haitian black wears. Then his story of the shadowing of Leborge was not at all in character. And, besides, as the Cuban had convinced himself, the boy was not aHaitian negro at all. 

Then, suddenly, a new thought flashed across Manuel's mind. He hadthought only of his fellow-conspirators as traitors. But there was oneother who had some inkling of the plot--Garfield, the American. 

And Garfield had a boy!

The Cuban's lip curled with contempt at the ease with which he hadunmasked Stuart. He had only to laugh and announce his discovery, forthe boy to be made powerless. 

It was a temptation. But Manuel was too wily to yield to a temptationmerely because it was pleasurable. As long as the boy did not know thathe had been found out, he would live in a Fool's Paradise of his owncleverness. Believing himself unsuspected, he would carry out hisplans--whatever they were--the while that Manuel, knowing his secret, could play with him as a cat plays with a mouse she has crippled. 

He decided to appear to believe this poorly woven story. 

"If you hate Leborge, and Leborge hates me, " he said, "I suppose we areboth his enemies. I presume, " he added, shrewdly, "if I refused to takeyou with me to the Citadel of the Black Emperor, you would shadow me, and go any way. "

A flash of assent came into the boy's eyes, which, he was not quickenough to suppress. Decidedly, Stuart was not cut out for a conspirator, and would never be a match for the Cuban in guile. 

"I see you would, " the Cuban continued. "Well, I would rather have youwithin my sight. Here is money. Tomorrow, an hour after sunrise, be atthe door of the hotel with the best horses you can find. I wish to be atMillot by evening. "

Stuart took the money and preceded Manuel into the town, chucklinginwardly at his cleverness in outwitting this keen conspirator. But hewould have been less elated with his success if he had heard the Cubanmutter, as he turned into the porch of the hotel, "First, the father. Now, the son!"

CHAPTER III

THE BLOOD-STAINED CITADEL

A foul, slimy ooze, compounded of fat soil, rotting vegetation andverdigris-colored scum, with a fainter green mark meandering throughit--such was the road to Millot. 

Stuart and the Cuban, the boy riding ahead, were picking their awayacross this noisome tract of land. 

For a few miles out of Cap Haitien, where the finger of Americaninfluence had reached, an air of decency and even of prosperity hadbegun to return. Near the town, the road had been repaired. Fields, longabandoned, showed signs of cultivation, anew. 

Two hours' ride out, however, it became evident that the new power hadnot reached so far. The road had dwindled to a trail of ruts, whichstaggered hither and thither in an effort to escape the quagmires--whichit did not escape. Twice, already, Stuart's horse had been mired and hehad to get out of the saddle and half-crawl, half-wriggle on his belly, in the smothering and sucking mud. So far, Manuel had escaped, by thesimple device of not passing over any spot which the boy had not triedfirst. 

This caution was not to serve him long, however. 

At some sight or sound unnoticed by the rider, Manuel's horse shied fromoff the narrow path of tussocks on which it was picking its way, andswerved directly into the morass. 

The Cuban, unwilling to get into the mud, tried to urge the little horseto get out. Two or three desperate plunges only drove it down deeper andit slipped backward into the clawing mire. 

Manuel threw himself from his horse, but he had waited almost too long, and the bog began to draw him down. He was forced to cry for help. 

Stuart, turning in his saddle, saw what had happened. He jumped off hishorse and ran to help the Cuban. The distance was too great for ahand-clasp. The ragged trousers which Stuart was wearing in his disguiseas a Haitian lad were only held up by a piece of string; he had no beltwhich he could throw. There was no sapling growing near enough to make astick. 

Then there came into the boy's mind an incident in a Western story hehad read. 

Darting back to his horse, he unfastened the saddle girth, and, hurryingback to where Manuel was floundering in the mud, he threw the saddleoutwards, holding the end of the girth. It was just long enough toreach. With the help of the flat surface given by the saddle and agradual pulling of the girth by Stuart, the Cuban was at last able tocrawl out. 

The gallant little horse, freed from its rider's weight, had reached apoint where it could be helped, and the two aided the beast to get itsforefeet on solid land. 

This rescue broke down much of the distance and some of the hostilitybetween Manuel and Stuart, and, as soon as the road began to rise fromthe quagmire country, and was wide enough to permit it, the Cubanordered the boy to ride beside him. Naturally, the conversation dealtwith the trail and its dangers. 

"You would hardly think, " said the Cuban, "that, a hundred years ago, astone-built road, as straight as an arrow, ran from Cap Haitien toMillot, and that over it, Toussaint l'Ouverture, 'the Black Napoleon, 'was wont to ride at breakneck speed, and Christophe, 'the blackEmperor, ' drove his gaudy carriage with much pomp and display. "

To those who take the road from Cap Haitien to Millot today, theexistence of that ancient highway seems incredible. Yet, though only acentury old, it is almost as hopelessly lost as the road in the SaharaDesert over which, once, toiling slaves in Egypt dragged the huge stonesof which the Pyramids of Ghizeh were built. 

Stuart and the Cuban had made a late start. In spite of the powerfulpolitical influence which the Cuban seemed to wield, his departure hadbeen fraught with suspicion. The Military Governor, a giganticcoal-black negro, had at first refused to grant permission for Polliovoto visit the Citadel; the Commandant of Marines had given him a warningwhich was almost an ultimatum. 

Manuel, with great suavity, had overset the former and defied thelatter. His story was of the smoothest. He was a military strategist, hedeclared, and General Leborge had asked him to investigate the citadel, in order to determine its value as the site for a modern fort. 

Stuart's part in the adventure was outwardly simple. No one thought itworth while to question him, and he accompanied the Cuban as a guide andhorse-boy. 

Although the road improved as the higher land was reached, it was duskwhen the two riders arrived at the foothills around Millot. 

Dark fell quickly, and, with the dark, came a low palpitating rumble, that distant throbbing of sound, that malevolent vibrance which gives toevery Haitian moonlit night an oppression and a fear all its own. 

"Rhoo-oo-oom--Rhoo-oo-oom--Rhoo-oo-oom!"

Muffled, dull, pulsating, unceasing, the thrummed tom-tom set all theair in motion. The vibrance scarcely seemed to be sound, rather did itseem to be a slower tapping of air-waves on the drum of the ear, too lowto be actually heard, but yet beating with a maddening persistence. 

There was a savagery in the sound, so disquieting, that a deep sigh ofrelief escaped from the boy's lungs when he saw the lights of Millottwinkling in the distance. Somehow, the presence of houses and peopletook away the sinister sound of the tom-tom and made it seem like anordinary drum. 

Millot, in the faint moonlight, revealed itself as a small village, nestling under high mountains. Signs of former greatness were visible inthe old gates which flanked the opening into its main street, but thegreater part of the houses were thatched huts. 

When at the very entrance of the village, there came a ringingchallenge, "Halt! Who goes there?"

"A visitor to the General, " was Manuel's answer. 

The barefoot sentry, whose uniform consisted of a forage cap, a coatwith one sleeve torn off and a pair of frayed trousers, but whose riflewas of the most up-to-date pattern, was at once joined by severalothers, not more splendidly arrayed than himself. 

As with one voice, they declared that the general could not bedisturbed, but the Cuban carried matters with a high hand. Dismounting, he ordered one of the sentries to precede him and announce his coming, and bade Stuart see that the horses were well looked after and ready fortravel in the morning, "or his back should have a taste of the whip. "

This phrase, while it only increased the enmity the soldiers felttoward the "white, " had the effect of removing all suspicion fromStuart, which, as the lad guessed, was the reason for Manuel's threat. Feeling sure that the boy would have the same animosity to his masterthat they felt, the soldiers seized the opportunity to while away themonotonous hours of their duty in talk. 

"What does he want, this 'white'?" they asked, suspiciously. 

"Like all whites, " answered Stuart, striving to talk in the character ofthe negro horse-boy, "he wants something he has no right to have. "

"And what is that?"

"Information. He says he is a military strategist, and is going to makeLa Ferrière, up there, a modern fort. "

"He will never get there, " said one of the soldiers. 

"You think not?"

"It is sure that he will not get there. Permission is refused always, Yes. The General is afraid lest a 'white' should find the buried money. "

"Christophe's treasure?" queried the boy, innocently. He had never heardof this treasure before, but rightly guessed that if it were supposed tobe hidden in the Citadel of the Black Emperor, it must have been placedthere by no one but the grim old tyrant himself. 

"But surely. Yes. You, in the south"--Stuart had volunteered theinformation that he came from the southern part of the island--"haveyou not heard the story of Dimanche (Sunday) Esnan?"

"I never heard it, No, " Stuart answered. 

"It was of strange, Yes, " the soldier proceeded. "Christophe was rich, ah, how rich! He had all the money of the republic. He spent it like anemperor. You shall see for yourself, if you look, what Christophe spentin building palaces, but no one shall say how much he spent on his ownpleasures. He had a court, like the great courts of Europe, and not a'white' in them. Ah, he was very rich and powerful, Christophe. It issaid that, when he died, he left 65, 000, 000 gourdes (then worth about$15, 000, 000) and this he buried, should he need money in order toescape. But, as even an ignorant like you will know, he did not escape. "

"I know, " replied Stuart, "he blew out his brains. "

"Right over there, he did it!" the soldier agreed, pointing into thenight. "But listen to the story of the treasure:

"When I was but a little older than a boy like you, into the Vache d'Or(a former gambling-house of some fame) there strolled this DimancheEsnan. He swaggered in, as one with plenty of money in his pocket. 

"Upon the table he threw some coins. 

"The croupier stared down at those coins, with eyes as cold and fixed asthose of a fer-de-lance ready to strike. The play at the table stopped. 

"It was a moment!

"The coins were Spanish doubloons!"

"A pirate hoard?" suggested Stuart. 

"It was thought. But this Dimanche had not been off the island foryears! And the buccaneers' treasure is at Tortugas, as is well known. 

"This Dimanche was at once asked if he had found Christophe's treasure, for where else would a man find Spanish doubloons of a century ago? Itwas plain, Yes!

"Well, what would you? President Hippolyte sent for him. He offered tomake him a general, a full general, if he would but tell where he hadfound the treasure. He showed him the uniform. It was gold laced, yes, gold lace all over! Dimanche was nearly tempted, but not quite. 

"Then they let him come back here, to Cap Haitien, Yes. All the day andall the night he was kept under watch. Ah, that was a strict watch!Every one of the guards thought that he might be the one to get clue tothe place of the buried treasure, look you!

"But the general here, at that time, was not a patient man, No! Besides, he wanted the treasure. He wanted it without having the President of theRepublic know. With sixty-five million gourdes he might push away thePresident and be president himself, who knows?

"What would you? The general put Dimanche in prison and put him to thequestion (torture) but Dimanche said nothing. Ah, he was stubborn, thatDimanche. He said nothing, nothing! The general did not dare to killhim, for he knew that the President had given orders to have the manwatched. 

"So the prison doors were set open. Pouf! Away disappears Dimanche andhas not been seen since. He still carries the secret of the treasure ofChristophe--that is, if he is not dead. "

"But didn't the President try to find the hoard on his own account?"asked Stuart. 

"But, most surely! My father was one of the soldiers in the party whichsearched in all the wonderful palaces that Christophe had built forhimself in 'Without Worry, ' in 'Queen's Delight, ' in 'The Glory, ' in'Beautiful View, ' yes, even in the haunted Citadel of La Ferrière. No, Ishould not have liked to do that, it is surely haunted. But they foundnothing. 

"Me, I think that the money is in the citadel. Has not the ghost ofChristophe been seen to walk there? And why should the ghost walk if ithad not a reason to walk? Eh?"

"That does seem reasonable, " answered Stuart, in response to thesoldier's triumphant tone. 

"But, most sure! So, Boy, " the guard concluded, "it is easy to see whythe General does not like any 'white' to go to the Citadel. Perhaps the'white, ' whose horses you look after, has seen Dimanche. Who knows? Sohe will not be let get up there. You may be sure of that. "

"One can't ever say, " answered the boy. "I must be ready for themorning, " and, with a word of farewell, he sauntered into the village ofMillot, to find some kind of stabling and food for the horses, and, ifpossible, some shelter for himself. 

Morning found Stuart outside the door of the general's "mansion, " astraw-thatched building, comprising three rooms and a narrow brick-pavedverandah. From what the soldiers had said the night before, the boy hadnot the slightest expectation of the Cuban's success. 

He had not waited long, however, before Manuel came out through thedoor, obsequiously followed by a coal-black general daubed with goldlace--most of which was unsewn and hanging in tatters, and all of whichwas tarnished. He was strongly, even violently, urging upon Manuel theneed of an escort. The Cuban not only disdained the question, but, mostevidently, disdained and disregarded the man. 

This extraordinary scene was closed by the General, the commandant ofthe entire commune, holding out his hand for a tip. Manuel put afive-gourdes bill (two dollars and a half) into the outstretched palm, and mounted his horse to an accompaniment of a profusion of thanks. 

A short distance out of Millot, the two riders came to the ruins ofChristophe's palace of "Without Worry" (Sans Souci). It was once averitable palace, situated on the top of a small hill overlooking a deepravine. Great flights of stone steps led up to it, while terrace uponterrace of what once were exquisitely kept gardens, filled with thefinest statuary, stepped to the depths below. 

Now, the gardens are waste, the statuary broken and the terraces arewashed into gullies by the rains. The palace itself is not lesslamentable. The walls are crumbling. Everything movable from theinterior has been looted. Trees grow outward from the upper windows, and, in the cracks of masonry and marble floors, a tropic vegetation hassprung up. Moss covers the mosaics, and the carved woodwork has becomethe prey of the worm. 

A little further on, at a hut which the General had described, Manueland Stuart left their horses, and then began the steep climb up LaFerrière. From the steaming heat of the plain below, the climbers passedinto the region of cold. The remains of a road were there, but the trackwas so indistinct as to render it difficult to follow. 

"Where the dense forest begins, " Manuel explained, "we shall find awarder. I would rather be without him, but the General does not dare tosend a message that a 'white' may visit the Citadel unaccompanied. Besides, I doubt if we could find the way, though once this was a wideroad, fit for carriage travel, on which the Black Emperor drove in pompand state to his citadel. It is incredible!"

"What is incredible?" asked Stuart. 

"That Christophe should have been able to make these negroes work forhim as no people in the world have worked since the days when thePharaohs of Egypt built the Pyramids. You will see the vast size of theCitadel. You see the steepness of the mountain. Consider it!

"The materials for the whole huge pile of building and the three hundredcannon with which it was fortified, were dragged up these steep mountainscarps and cliffsides by human hands. Christophe employed the troopsmercilessly in this labor and subdued mutiny by the simple policy of notonly shooting the mutineers, but also a corresponding number of innocentmen, as well, just to teach a lesson. Whole villages were commandeered. Sex made no difference. Women worked side by side with men, were whippedside by side with men, and, if they weakened, were knifed or shot andthrown into a ditch. One of Christophe's overseers is said to haveboasted that he could have made a roadway of human bones from Sans Soucito the summit. "

The words "bloody ruffian" were on Stuart's lips, but, just in time, heremembered his character, and replied instead, "But Christophe was a great man!"

The boy knew well that though Toussaint L'Ouverture, the "BlackNapoleon, " had truly been a great man in every sense of the word, aliberator, general and administrator, the Haitians think little of him, because he believed that blacks, mulattoes and whites should have anequal chance. Dessalines and Christophe, monsters of brutality, are theheroes of Haiti, because they massacred everyone who was not coal-black. 

Manuel cast a sidelong glance at Stuart, smiling inwardly at the boy'sattempt to maintain his disguise, that disguise which the Cuban had soquickly pierced, and shrugged his shoulders. 

"What would you!" he rejoined. "You see yourself, it is the onlygovernment that Haitians understand. To this day, a century later, thispart of the island is better than the south, because of the impress ofthe reign of Christophe. Nothing changes Haiti!"

"The Americans?" queried Stuart, trying to put a note of dislike intohis voice, but intensely interested in his own question. 

"They have changed nothing!" declared the Cuban, emphatically. "Theyhave painted the faces of the coast towns, and that is all. You heardthat drum, the night before last? Not until the tom-tom has ceased tobeat in Haiti, can anything be changed. "

He rose, threw away the stump of his cigar, and motioned to the boy totake up the trail. 

A few hundred yards higher, a raucous shout halted them. 

There was a rustle of branches, and a negro colossus, of the low-browed, heavy-jawed type, plunged through the thicket and barred the path. 

Bareheaded, barefooted, his shirt consisting of a piece of cloth withholes for head and arms, his trousers torn to tatters by thorns, thewarder of the Citadel looked what he was, a Caco machete man, littleremoved from the ferocity of African savagery. 

To his shout, the Cuban deigned no answer. 

He broke a switch from a bush, walked toward the negro guard with acontemptuous look and lashed him across the face with the switch, ordering him to lead the way. 

Stuart expected to see the Cuban cut down with one stroke of themachete. 

Far from it. Cowed at once, the negro cringed, as to a master, and, without a word as to Manuel's authority, led the way up the trail. 

A hundred yards higher, all sign of a path was lost. The negro warderwas compelled to use his machete to cut a way through thorny underbrushand creepers in order to make a path for the "white's" feet. 

The afternoon was well advanced when openings amid the trees showed, beetling overhead, the gray walls of the Citadel. An hour's furtherclimbing brought them to the guard-house, where eight men watchcontinually, each relief for a period of a month, against the intrusionof strangers into Christophe's Citadel. 

An irregularly disposed clump of posts, stuck into the ground, supporteda rusted and broken tin roof, without walls, but boasting a brushwoodpile on one side--such was the entire barracks of the La Ferrièregarrison. The furniture consisted only of a log on which to sit, a fewcooking utensils, and a pile of rags in the driest corner. 

True, there was plenty of room in the Citadel. Many a chamber in theruined place was dry and sheltered from the weather, many a corner wasthere where the watchers could have made themselves warm andcomfortable. They were not forbidden to sleep there. On the contrary, they were encouraged. But never a one would do so. They declared theplace haunted and were in a state of terror even to be near it. 

Manuel, after pausing for a moment to take his breath, strode up to thegroup. 

"Get in there, some of you!" he ordered, "And show me the way. I want tosee over the place. "

A chorus of wails arose. The guards shrank and cowered at thesuggestion. Their terror was more than panicky, it was even hysterical. They shook with convulsive jerks of fear, as though they had a spasmdisease. 

"Christophe!" cried one of them, in a sort of howl. "Christophe! Forthree days he is here, Yes! We see him walk, Yes! If we go in, he willmake us jump off the cliff!"

And another added, with an undertone of superstitious horror, "And his ghost will be waiting at the bottom to carry our ghosts away!"

"Fools!" declared Manuel, "open the door!"

He pointed to where the huge, rusty iron-bound door frowned in the blankwall of gray stone. 

The negro guards hung back and gabbled together, but Manuel turned uponthem fiercely with uplifted switch. At that, the giant warder, who hadalready acknowledged the mastership, slouched forward and pulled openthe creaking door, leaving a dark opening from which came the smell offoul air and poisonous vegetation. 

Manuel motioned with his head for Stuart to precede him. 

The boy hesitated. He was brave enough, but the terror of the negroeswas catching. He would not have admitted to being afraid, but there wasa lump in his throat and his legs felt unsteady. 

The Cuban, who felt sure that Stuart was not the negro horse-boy that heseemed, judged this appearance of fear as evidence that the boy wasstill playing a part, and turned on him with a snarl. 

"Get in there, you!"

Screwing up his courage, Stuart stepped forward, though hesitatingly andunwillingly. Just as he crossed the threshold, the giant warder reachedout a gaunt hand and pulled him back. 

"Not that way!" he said. "Two steps more, Boy, and you are dead!"

Manuel started. From his pocket he took a portable electric light andflashed it upon the ground just within the entrance. 

The negro guard was right. Immediately before him lay a deep pit, howdeep there was no means of saying. Once it had been covered with atrap-door, which could be worked from the Inner Citadel. ThusChristophe, if he pleased, could send a message of welcome to hisvisitors, and drop them to a living death with the words of hospitalityon his lips. 

"If I had gone first, " said Manuel quietly, turning to the guards, "notone of you would have said a word!"

The negroes slunk away under his gaze. The accusation was true. They hadno love for the "whites. " Only the fact that they believed Stuart to bea negro boy had saved him. 

The boy looked down at that profound dungeon, from which rose a faintstench, and shuddered. 

There was a heavy pause. Manuel was debating whether he dare try andforce the guards to show the way. If he ordered it, he would have toforce it through, or the prestige he had won would be lost. He darednot. As between the terror of a white man's gun, and the terror of a"ha'nt, " the latter was the more powerful. 

Motioning Stuart to enter and showing the narrow ledge around the pitwith the spotlight, he followed. Then he turned to the guards clusteredoutside. 

"Close the door!" he ordered, curtly. 

This command was obeyed with alacrity. The negro guards were only tooanxious to see that hole in the wall shut. Suppose the ghost ofChristophe should come gliding out among them!

So far, the Cuban was safe. He had reached the Citadel and entered it. He had no fear that the warders would open it again to spy on him. Their terror was too real. 

Raising the spotlight so that it flashed full upon Stuart's face, theCuban spoke. 

"Understand me, now, " he said curtly, and with a hard ring in his voice. "How much of your story may be true and how much false I have not yetfound out. But, if what you say about hating Leborge is true, I will putyou in a place where you will be able to see him. You have a pistol, Iknow. If you see Leborge raise pistol or knife against me, shoot, andshoot quickly! I will make you rich!"

Stuart thought to himself that if the conspirators were to come toquarreling, that was the very time he would keep still. He, certainly, had no desire for bloodshed, nor any intention to fire at anybody, if hecould help it. But he only answered, "I understand. "

Manuel's intention was no less concealed. He planned either to revealthe boy to his fellow-conspirators, or else, to reveal him to the negrowarders as a white intruder. Either way, he figured, there would be anend to the boy. 

By the light of his lamp, consulting a small manuscript chart of theruin, Manuel passed through many tortuous passages and dark chambersuntil he came to a ruined wall. Climbing a few feet up the crumblingstones, he set his eye to a crevice, nodded as though satisfied, wrenched away several more stones, laying these down silently andbeckoned Stuart to come beside him. 

The boy looked down on a circular hall, the outer arc of which waspierced with ruined windows opening to the sky. 

"Leborge will sit there!" whispered Manuel, pointing. "Kill him, and youwill be rich!"

Stuart nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. 

Walking as silently as he could, Manuel left the place, pondering in hisown mind what he was going to do with the boy. Should he reveal thesecret and have his fellow-conspirators kill him? Should he turn himover to the machetes of the negroes? Or should he kill the boy, himself?One thing he had determined--that Stuart should not reach the plainsbelow, alive. 

And Stuart, in that hole of the ruined wall, crouched and watched. Ofwhat was to happen in that room below, what dark plot he was to hear, hehad no knowledge. Yet, over his eager desire to find out this conspiracyagainst the United States, above his anxiety with regard to the fate ofhis father, one question loomed in ever larger and blacker proportions--

He had got into the Citadel. How was he to get out?

CHAPTER IV

THE GHOST OF CHRISTOPHE

Manuel was no coward. Somewhere, back in his Spanish ancestry, had beena single drop of an Irish strain, adding a certain combativeness to thegallantry of his race. That drop, too, mixed badly with Spanishtreachery, and made him doubly dangerous. 

Certainly the Cuban was no coward. But, as he came out from the murk ofthose chambers with their rotting floors, many of them undermined byoubliettes and dungeons, he felt a chill of fear. Even the occasionalbursts of sunshine through the cloud-fog which perpetually sweeps overLa Ferrière did not hearten him. He passed into the open space back ofthe outer walls and set himself to climb the long flight of stone stepsthat led to the battlements, where, he thought, his fellow conspiratorsmight be. But, on the summit, he found himself alone. 

The battlements cowed his spirits. With walls fifteen feet thick, wideenough to allow a carriage to be driven upon them, they looked over asheer drop of two thousand feet. Sinister and forbidding, even thesunlight could not lessen their grimness. 

As if in memory of the hundreds of victims who had been bidden jump offthose ramparts, merely for Christophe's amusement, or who had beenhurled, screaming, as penalty for his displeasure, a ruddy moss feedingupon decay, has spread over the stones, and this moss, ever kept damp bythe cloud-banks which wreathe the Citadel continually is moistly red, like newly shed blood. In cracks and corners, fungi of poisonous huesadds another touch of wickedness. Manuel shivered with repulsion. Probably not in all the world, certainly not in the Western Hemisphere, is there a ruin of such historic terror as the Citadel of the BlackEmperor on the summit of La Ferrière. [1]

[Footnote 1: This ruin, now, is nominally in territory under thejurisdiction of an American provost-marshal. It is therefore lessdifficult of access than formerly, but it is still considered unsafe fortravelers. ]

A gleam of sun revealed the extraordinary impregnability of the place. The double-walled entrance from the hillside, pierced by but a singlegate, could only be battered down by heavy artillery, and no gunspowerful enough for such a feat could be brought up the hill. The InnerCitadel, access to which was only by a long flight of steps, isunapproachable from any other point, and a handful of defenders couldkeep an army at bay. 

The cliff-side is as sheer as Gibraltar, affording not even a footholdfor the most venturesome climber. The walls are built upon its veryverge and are as solid as the rock itself. Its gray mass conveys asense of enormous power. "It towers upon the last and highestprecipice, " says Hesketh Prichard, "like some sinister monster of theelder world, ready to launch itself forth upon the spreading landsbelow. "

The Citadel commands the whole of the Plain of the North clear to thedistant sea. At its south-eastern end it faces toward the frontier ofSt. Domingo, the sister republic, fifty miles away. Christophe built itas a central base, controlling the only roads and passes which commandthe range from Dondon to Vallière, and rendering attack impossible, fromthe southern side, through Marmalade. (Many names in Haiti give anirresistible appearance of being comic, such as the Duke of Lemonade, Duke of Marmalade, Baron the Prophet Daniel, and Colonel the Baron RoastBeef, but they are intended seriously. )

Manuel had gazed over the landscape but a few moments when the sun wasveiled in one of the cold, raw cloud-fogs which continually sweep thesummit. Billowing, dank masses hurtled about him, blotting out even theoutlines of the ruin. For several minutes the grey mists enwreathed him, then, as they lightened, the Cuban saw before him, shadow-like andstrange, the figure of the Black Emperor himself. 

The warders' terror of the ghost of Christophe cramped Manuel's heartfor a moment and he fell back. His hand flashed to his pocket, none theless. 

The figure laughed, a harsh coarse laugh which Manuel knew andrecognized at once. 

"General Leborge, " he exclaimed, surprise and self-annoyance strugglingin his voice. "It is you!"

"But Yes, my friend, it is I. You see, I am not so daring as you. I camesecretly. I have been here three days, waiting for you. "

"But the meeting was set for today!"

"It is true. But it was more difficult for me to get here than for you. See you, as a stranger you had not the suspicion of intrusion to combat. No, if it were known that I were here, there would be politicaldifficulties--ah, many! Yes!"

The Cuban nodded. He was not especially interested in the politicalembroilments of his co-conspirator. As a matter of fact, the plotaccomplished, it was Manuel's purpose to let enough of the truth leakout to make it seem that Leborge had been a traitor to the HaitianRepublic. 

"Have you seen Cecil?" he asked. 

"Not yet, No!" answered the negro general. "Me, I had thought he wouldcome with you. "

"He didn't. And he wasn't on the road from Cap Haitien, either. Queer, too. First time I ever knew him to fail. "

"So! But I have a feeling he will not fail. He will be here today. Comedown to the place of meeting. I have some food and we can have amouthful while waiting for him. "

The big negro cast a look at himself. 

"I do not think we shall be interrupted, No!" he commented. 

The Cuban showed his teeth in the gleam of a quick smile. 

"The guards are too much afraid of the ghost of Christophe to dare enterthe place, " he said. "That was a good idea of yours. "

The two men turned away from the battlements to the steps which led downtoward the dwelling rooms, and Manuel laid finger on lip. 

"It is well to be a ghost, " he said, "but if the guards should chance tohear me talking to the ghost, they might begin to think. And thinking, my dear Leborge, is sometimes dangerous. "

The huge negro nodded assent and hung back while Manuel descended thestair. 

At the entrance into the high room, ringed with windows, in a smallruined opening of which Stuart crouched watching, Manuel waited forLeborge. Together they entered. 

At the door of the room the negro started back with an exclamation ofastonishment, and even Manuel paused. 

On a square block of stone in the center of the room, which Manuel couldhave sworn was not there when he looked into the chamber a shorthalf-hour before, sat Guy Cecil, complacently puffing at a briar pipe. His tweeds were as immaculate as though he had just stepped from thehands of his valet, and his tan shoes showed mark neither of mud norrough trails. Manuel's quick glance caught these details and they sethim wondering. 

"By the Ten Finger-Bones!" ejaculated Leborge. "How did you get inhere?"

"Why?" asked Cecil, in mild surprise. 

"Polliovo didn't see you come. I didn't see you come. "

"No?"

The negation was insolent in its carelessness. 

"But how did you get in?"

The Englishman took his pipe from his mouth, and, with the stem, pointednegligently to a window. 

"That way, " he said. 

The negro blustered out an oath, but was evidently impressed, and lookedat his fellow-conspirator with superstitious fear. 

The Cuban, more curious and more skeptical, went straight to the windowand looked out. The crumbling mortar-dust on the sill had evidently beendisturbed, seeming to make good the Englishman's story, but, from thewindow, was a clear drop of four hundred feet of naked rock, withouteven a crack to afford a finger-hold, while the precipitous descent fellanother fifteen hundred feet. To climb was a feat manifestly impossible. 

"Permit me to congratulate you on your discovery of wings, Senor Cecil, "remarked Manuel, with irony. 

The Englishman bowed, as at a matter-of-course compliment, and, bytacit agreement, the subject dropped. 

Yet Manuel's irritation was hard to hide. Not the least of the reasonsfor his animosity to Cecil was the Englishman's undoubted ability tocover his movements. In the famous case when the two conspirators hadnegotiated an indigo concession in San Domingo and the profits hadsuddenly slipped through Manuel's fingers, the Cuban was sure that theEnglishman had made a winning, but he had no proof. Likewise, with thisplot in hand, Manuel feared lest he should be outmanoeuvred at the last. 

Following Cecil's example, Leborge and Manuel rolled out to the centerof the room some blocks that had fallen from the walls, and sat down. Stuart noticed that the Cuban so placed himself that he was well out ofa possible line of fire between the negro general and the embrasurewhere the boy was hidden. This carefulness, despite its air ofnegligence, reminded Stuart of the rôle he was expected to play, and heconcentrated his attention on the three conspirators. 

Although the Cuban was apparently the only one who had reason to suspectbeing overheard, the three men talked in low tones. The language usedwas French, as Stuart gleaned from a word or two which reached his ears, but the subject of the conversation escaped him. One phrase, however, attracted his attention because it was so often repeated, and Stuartsurmised that this phrase must bear an important relation to the mainsubject of the meeting. The boy did not fail to realize that aconference so important that it could only be held in so secret a placemust be of extraordinary gravity. This phrase was----

[Illustration: FOR A HUNDRED FEET THEY FELL AND STUART CLOSED HIS EYESIN SICKENING DIZZINESS]

"Mole St. Nicholas. "

The words held no meaning for Stuart, though he had seen reference tothem in his father's papers. He suspected that the phrase might be somecatch-word referring to a subject too dangerous for mention, possiblythe Presidency of Haiti. Following out this theme, the boy guessed thathe was a witness to the hatching of one of the political revolutions, which, from time to time, have convulsed the Republic of Haiti. If so, the matter was serious, for, as the boy knew, ever since the treaty of1915, the United States was actively interested in forcing theself-determination of Haiti, meanwhile holding the country under avirtual protectorate. Such a revolution, therefore, would be adeliberate attack upon the United States. 

This impression was heightened by his catching the words "naval base, "which could only deal with possible developments in a state of war. Stuart strained his ears to the utmost, but isolated words were all thathe could glean. 

Later, Stuart was to learn that his guess was at fault in general, butthat the conclusion he had reached--namely, that injury to the UnitedStates was intended--was not far wide of the mark. 

As the conference proceeded, it became evident to the hidden observerthat the relations between the conspirators were growing strained. TheCuban seemed to be in taunting mood. The veins on the negro general'sbull neck began to swell, and he turned and called Manuel, "Pale Toad!"

A moment after, his raucous voice insulted the Englishman with thedescription, "Snake that does not even hiss!"

Stuart expected to see violence follow these words, but the Cuban onlymoved restlessly under the insult; the Englishman smiled. It was apleasant smile, but Stuart was keen enough to grasp that a man whosmiles when he is insulted must either be a craven or a dangerous manwith an inordinate gift of self-control. Cecil could not be a coward, orsuch men as Manuel and Leborge would not so evidently fear him, therefore the other character must befit him. 

Another word which repeated itself frequently was----

"Panama. "

This confirmed Stuart in his suspicions that the conspiracy, whatever itmight portend, was directed against the authority of the United States, since the Panama Canal Zone is under American jurisdiction. 

The conference was evidently coming to a crisis. The negro was becomingexcited, the Cuban nervous, the Englishman more immovable than ever. 

Came a sudden movement, following upon some phrase uttered by Manuel, but unheard by the boy, and the Cuban and Leborge leaped to their feet, a revolver in each man's right hand. 

Spoke the Englishman, in a quiet voice, but sufficiently deepened byexcitement to reach the boy's ears:

"Is there any reason, Gentlemen, why I should not shoot both of you andfinish this little affair myself?"

A revolver glittered in his hand, though no one had seen the action ofdrawing. 

In the flash of a second, Stuart understood Manuel's plot. It was theCuban who had provoked the negro to draw his weapon, counting on theboy's shooting his supposed enemy, as had been agreed upon. Then Manuelwould drag him out of his hiding-place and kill him for an eavesdropper. He crouched, motionless, and watched. 

"Sit down, and put up your weapons, " continued Cecil, his voice stilltense enough to be heard clearly. "This is childishness. Our plans needall three of us. It will be time enough to quarrel when we come todivide the spoils. First, the spoils must be won. "

Negro and Cuban, without taking their eyes from other, each fearing thatthe other might take an advantage, realized from Cecil's manner, that hemust have the drop on them. With a simultaneous movement, they put awaytheir guns. The negro sat down, beaten. Manuel, with a swift and hardlynoticeable side-step, moved a little nearer to Cecil, putting himselfalmost within knife-thrust distance. 

A slight, a very slight elevation of the barrel of the tiny revolverglittering in the Englishman's hand warned the Cuban that the weapon wascovering his heart. An even slighter narrowing of the eyelids warned himthat Cecil was fully ready to shoot. 

With a low curse, the Cuban retreated to his stone and sat down. He didnot sprawl loosely in dejection, as had the negro, but he sat with onefoot beside the stone and his body leaning half-forward, his musclestense, like a forest cat awaiting its spring. 

The conference came to a head quickly, as Stuart saw. The outbreak ofmistrust and hostility, followed by discussion, proved how closelylinked were the plotters. Yet each man wanted the business done asquickly as possible, and wanted to be free from the danger ofassassination by his comrades. 

Leborge drew from his pocket a paper which he showed to the other two, and, in turn, Manuel and Cecil produced documents, the Englishman usinghis left hand only and never dropping the barrel of his revolver. Fewwords were exchanged, and these in the low tones in which the conferencehad been carried on before. Of the contents of the papers, Stuart couldnot even guess. Whatever they were, they seemed to be satisfactory, for, so far as the boy could judge, harmony returned among theconspirators. But the Englishman kept wary watch with his gun. 

"All goes well, then, " concluded Leborge, rising and shivering in thedamp air, for the clouds were eddying through the ruined windows in rawand gusty blasts. 

"It can be done next spring!" declared the Cuban. 

"It will be done, as agreed, " was the Englishman's more cautiousstatement. 

"Then, " said Manuel, raising his voice a trifle in a way which Stuartknew he was meant to hear, "the sooner I get down to Cap Haitien thebetter. I had trouble enough to get up. "

"It might be well, " suggested the Englishman, "if Leborge should repeathis trick of appearing as the ghost of Christophe. The guards will be sofrightened that they will think of nothing else, and you will be able toget away without any unpleasantness. "

"And you?" queried the Cuban. "How will you go?"

Again the Englishman nodded toward the window. 

"I will use the wings you were kind enough to say I must possess, " heanswered, enigmatically. 

Peering out cautiously from his post of observation in the embrasure, Stuart saw that both Manuel and Leborge hesitated at the entrance tothe dark passage which led from the Dining Hall and Queen's Chamber tothe inner court, from whence went the paths leading respectively to theouter gate, whither Manuel must go, and to the battlements, whereLeborge was to reappear as the ghost of Christophe. 

"You are afraid of each other?" queried Cecil, with his faint smile. "Well, perhaps you have reason! I will go through the passage with bothof you. As I said before, each of us needs the other. "

Relief and hate passed like shadows across the faces of Leborge andManuel. Each had intended to kill the other in the dark of thosepassages, each had feared that he might be slain himself. As Cecil knew, once out in the open, mutual distrust and watchfulness would ensure thekeeping of the peace. 

Stuart, listening intently for the sound of shots, heard in the distancethe Englishman's voice:

"I forgot my pipe. I'll just go back for it. "

And then he heard steps coming at a light, but fast run. Evidently Cecilwanted to gain time. 

The Englishman came in swiftly, picked up his pipe--which he had left onthe stone--slipped across toward the window, moved a loosened stone anddrew out from a cavity in the wall a green bundle from which some strapswere hanging. These he buckled on as a body-harness. Stuart had neverseen fingers that moved so quickly, or which had less appearance ofhurry. 

A thought struck him. Impulsively, he leaped from the embrasure. 

A glitter told him that the gun was covering him. 

He spoke breathlessly. 

"Manuel expected me to kill Leborge. He'll kill me for not doing it. "

In answer to a commanding look of interrogation, Stuart went on:

"I'm an American, and straight. I'll tell you all about it, later. Guessthere isn't much time, now. Take me with you. "

Cecil knew men. He looked at the boy, piercingly, and answered:

"Very well. If you've got the nerve. "

"I have!"

Eye flashed to eye. 

Came the decision:

"Your belt's too small. Take mine!"

The Englishman unfastened his own belt, grasped the boy by theshoulders, spun him round, ran the belt under his arms and through thetwo sides of the harness he had strapped on himself. He took a step anda heave and both were on the window-sill. 

At the sight of the abyss below, a sudden panic caught Stuart's breathand heart, and he seemed to choke. 

"What do we do?" he gasped. 

"We jump!" said Cecil. 

They leaped clear. 

For a hundred feet they fell, and Stuart closed his eyes in thatsickening dizziness which comes from a high fall. 

Then he felt Cecil's arm grip him in a bear hug, and, a second after, his breast bone seemed to cave in, as a sudden jerk and strain came onthe strap by which he was bound to the Englishman. 

Instinctively he tried to squirm free, but the grip and the strap heldfirm. 

Then the falling motion changed into a slow rocking see-saw, coupledwith a sense of extraordinary lightness, and Stuart, looking overhead, saw the outstretched circle of a modern parachute. 

CHAPTER V

THE ISLE OF THE BUCCANEERS

Swaying in sea-sick fashion, Stuart saw the forests, far below, seem torise up to meet him. Under the influence of the double motion of dropand roll, the whole earth seemed to be rocking, and the sense of thevoid beneath him made Stuart feel giddy and faint. The fall was slowerthan he had expected. 

Soon, a damp heat, rising from below, warned the boy that they wereapproaching the ground, and, a second or two later, the Englishman saidquietly:

"We are going to hit the trees. Cover your face and head with your arms. You won't be hurt, but there is no sense in having one's eyes scratchedout. "

In fact, the trees were very near. Stuart cast one look down, and then, following the advice given, covered his face. A quarter of a minutelater, his legs and the lower half of his body plunged into twigs andfoliage. The parachute, released from a part of the weight which hadheld it steady, careened, was caught by a sidewise gust of wind, and, bellying out like a sail, it dragged the two aerial travelers throughthe topmost branches in short, vicious jerks which made Stuart feel asthough he were being pulled apart. This lasted but a minute or two, however, when the parachute itself, torn, and caught in the branches, came to anchor. 

"I fancy we had better climb down, " remarked Cecil, cheerfully, and, atthe same time, Stuart realized that the belt, which had grappled himtight to the Englishman's harness, had been loosened. 

The boy drew a long breath, for his lungs had been tightly compressedduring the downward journey, and, instinctively, reached out for abranch sufficiently strong to support him. 

The Englishman, a man of quicker action, had already swung clear and wasdescending the tree with a lithe agility that seemed quite out ofkeeping with his quiet and self-possessed manner. The boy, despite hisyouth, came down more clumsily. On reaching ground, he found hiscompanion sedately polishing his tan boots with a tiny bit of rag he hadtaken from a box not much bigger than a twenty-five cent piece. Stuart'sclothes were torn in half-a-dozen places, Cecil's tweeds were absolutelyunharmed. 

The Englishman caught the boy's thought and answered it. 

"Explorers' Cloth, " he said. "I have it made specially for me; you canhardly cut it with a knife. "

Inwardly the boy felt that he ought to be able to carry on theconversation in the same light vein, but his nerves were badly shaken. His companion glanced at him. 

"A bit done up, eh?" He took a metal container from his pocket, in shapelike a short lead pencil, and poured out two tiny pellets into his palm. 

"If you are not afraid of poison, " he remarked amicably, "swallow these. They will pick you up at once. "

The thought of poison had flashed into Stuart's mind. After all, theEnglishman was just as much one of the conspirators as Manuel orLeborge, and might be just as anxious for the death of an eavesdropper. At the same time, the boy realized that he was absolutely in theEnglishman's power, and that if Cecil wanted to get rid of him, there, in that thick forest, he had ample opportunity. To refuse the pelletsmight be even more dangerous than to accept them. Besides, there was acertain atmosphere of directness in Cecil, conspirator though the boyknew him to be, which forbade belief in so low-grade a manner of actionas the use of poison. 

He held out his hand for the pellets and swallowed them without a word. 

A slight inclination of the head showed the donor's acceptance of thefact that he was trusted. 

"Now, my lad, " he said. "I think you ought to tell me something aboutyourself, and what you were doing in the Citadel. You asked me to saveyou from Manuel, and I have done so. Perhaps I have been hasty. But, inhonor bound, you must tell me what you know and what you heard. "

Through Stuart's veins, the blood was beginning to course full and free. The pellets which Cecil had given him--whatever they were--removed hisfatigue as though it had been a cloak. They loosened the boy's tongue, also, and freely he told the Englishman all his affairs save for hiscause in pursuing Manuel, which he regarded as a personal matter. Hementioned the only words he had overheard, while watching in the ruinedCitadel and explained that the taunting of Leborge by Manuel, during theconference, had been only a ruse to provoke trouble, the Cuban hopingthat the boy would shoot. 

"And what general impression did you get from the meeting?" Cecilqueried. 

The boy hesitated, fearing to enrage his questioner. 

"Well, " he blurted out, "if I must say it, I think that you're plottinga revolution in this country, putting Leborge up as president, lettingManuel run the country, driving the United States clean out of it, andgiving you the chance to take all sorts of commercial concessions foryourself. "

The Englishman nodded his head. 

"For a guess, " he declared, "your idea is not half bad. Evidently, youhave plenty of imagination. The only trouble with your summing up of thesituation, my boy, is that it is wrong in every particular. If you didnot learn any more than that from the conference, your information isquite harmless. I suppose I can count on your never mentioning thismeeting?"

Stuart thought for a moment. 

"No, " he said, "I can't promise that. "

The Englishman lifted his eyebrows slightly. 

"And why?"

Stuart found it difficult to say why. He had a feeling that to swearsilence would, in a sense, make him a party to the conspiracy, whateverit might be. 

"I--I've got it in for Manuel, " he said lamely, though conscious, as hesaid it, that the reply would not satisfy. 

Cecil looked at him through narrowed eyelids. 

"I suppose you know that I would have no scruples in shooting you if youbetrayed us, " he remarked. 

Stuart looked up. 

"I don't know it, " he answered. "Manuel or Leborge might do it, but Ithink you'd have a lot of scruples in shooting an unarmed boy. "

"Surely you can't expect me to save your life merely to run my own neckin a noose?"

"That's as good as admitting that what you're doing might run your neckinto a noose, " commented Stuart shrewdly, if a little imprudently. 

"All right. But you must play fair. I have helped you. In honor, youcan't turn that help against me. "

It was a definite deadlock. The boy realized that, while the Englishmanwas not likely to put a bullet through his head, as either Manuel orLeborge would have done, he was none the less likely to arrange affairsso that there would be no chance for talk. Haitian prisons weredeathtraps. Also Cecil's declaration that an abuse of kindness would bedishonorable had a great deal of weight with the boy. His father hadtaught him the fine quality of straight dealing. 

"Look here, sir, " he said, after a pause. "You said that I hadn't gotthe right idea as to what you three were doing. "

"You haven't. "

"Then I can't betray it, that's sure! I'll promise, if you like, that, if I do ever find out the whole truth about this plot, and if it'ssomething which, as an American, I oughtn't to let go by, I won't makeany move in it until I know you've been warned in plenty of time. If itisn't, I'll say nothing. There's no reason why I should get Leborge oryou in trouble. It's Manuel I'm after. "

"If you'll promise that, " said Cecil, "I fancy I can afford to let yougo. I don't want you with me, anyway, for that Cuban dog would be surethat you had betrayed him to me, and he would suppose that I was goingto betray him in turn. I'll land you in Cuba, and if you take my advice, you'll keep away from Haiti. It isn't healthy--for you. "

Having thus settled Stuart's fate to his own satisfaction, Cecilclimbed a little distance up the tree, caught the ropes of theparachute, and with much hauling, assisted by Stuart, he pulled thewreckage down and thrust it under a bush. 

"The weather and the ants will make short work of that, " he commented. "There won't be much of it left but the ribs in a week. And now, lad, we'll strike for the coast. "

Though there seemed to Stuart no way of telling where they were, Ceciltook a definite course through the jungle. They scrambled over andthrough the twisted tangle of undergrowth, creepers and lianas, and, inless than an hour, reached a small foot-path, bearing north-westward. 

"I don't know this path, " the Englishman remarked frankly, "but it'sgoing in the direction I want, any way. " A little later, he commented, "I fancy this leads to a village, " and struck out into the jungle for adetour. On the further side of the village, he remarked, "I know where Iam, now, " and, thereafter, made no further comment upon the route. Hetalked very interestingly, however, about the insects, flowers and treesby the way, and, when dark came on, taught Stuart more about the starsthan he had learned in all his years of schooling. 

They walked steadily without a halt for food, even, from the lateafternoon when the parachute had hit the trees, until about an hourafter sunrise the next morning, when the faint trail that they hadlately been following, suddenly came to an end on the bank of a narrowriver, hardly more than a creek. 

Putting a tiny flat instrument between his teeth, Cecil blew a shriek soshrill that it hurt Stuart's ears. It was repeated from a distance, almost immediately. Five minutes later the boy heard the "chug-chug" ofa motor boat, and a small craft of racing pattern glided up to the bank. 

"Got a passenger, Andy, " he said to the sole occupant of the boat. 

"Food for fishes?" came the grim query, in reply. 

"Not yet; not this time, anyway. No, we'll just put him ashore at Cubaand see if he knows how to mind his own business. "

The motor boat engineer grumbled under his breath. He was evidently nota man for half-measures. The blood of the old buccaneers ran in hisveins. It was evident, though, that Cecil was master. 

The two men aboard, Andy turned the head of the motor boat down theriver and out to sea, shooting past the short water-front of the littlevillage of Plaine du Nord at a bewildering speed. The Creoles had barelytime to realize that there was something on the water before it was goneout of sight. 

Despite its speed--which was in the neighborhood of thirty-twoknots--the motor boat was built for sea use, and it ran along the coastof the Haitian north peninsula, past Le Borgne and St. Louis de Nord, like a scared dolphin. Arriving near Port-de-Paix, it hugged the shoreof the famous lair of the buccaneers, Isle de Tortugas, and thencestruck for the open sea. 

"Tortugas!" commented Cecil, pointing to the rocky shores of the islet. 

"That's where all the pirates came from, wasn't it?" queried Stuart, eager to break the silence of the journey. 

"Pirates? No. The pirate haunts were more to the north. It was thestronghold of the buccaneers. "

"I always thought pirates and buccaneers were the same thing, " put inthe boy. 

"Far from it. Originally the buccaneers were hunters, and their namecomes from _boucan_, a word meaning dried flesh. They hunted wild cattleand wild pigs on that island over there. "

"Haiti?"

"It was called Hispaniola, then. The Spanish owned it, but had only afew settlements on the coast. The population was largely Carib, a savagerace given to cannibalism. There seems little reason to doubt that evenif the buccaneers did not actually smoke and cure human flesh, as theCaribs did, they traded in it and ate it themselves. "

"Were the buccaneers Spaniards?" queried Stuart. 

"No. French to begin with, and afterwards, many English joined them. That was just where the whole bloody business began. France protectedthe buccaneers, sent them aid and ammunition; even their famousguns--known as 'buccaneering pieces' and four and a half feet long--wereall made in France. There was a steady demand for smoked meat and hides, and France was only too ready to get these from a Spanish colony withoutpayment of any dues thereon. 

"At the beginning of the seventeenth century the buccaneers--at thattime only hunters--settled in small groups on the island of Hispaniola. Such a policy was dangerous. Time after time parties of Spanish soldieryraided the settlements, killing most of the hunters and putting theprisoners to the torture. In desperation, the buccaneers decided toabandon Hispaniola. They united their forces and sailed to the island ofSt. Kitts, nominally in the hands of Spain, but then inhabited only byCaribs. 

"The French government at once extended its protection to St. Kitts, thus practically seizing it from Spain and claimed it as a possession. Great Britain agreed to support France in this illegal seizure and thusthe little colony of St. Kitts was held safe under both French andEnglish governments, which actually supported the hunting ventures ofthe buccaneers, and winked at the piratic raids which generally formed apart of the buccaneering expeditions. 

"But it was not to be expected that the Spanish would keep still underthe continual pillage of these plundering hunters. The Dons undertookto destroy the small vessels in which the buccaneers sailed and, beforethree years had passed, fully one-half of the buccaneers sailing fromSt. Kitts had been savagely slaughtered. These outrages promptedreprisals from the English and the French and thus the privateers cameinto the field. "

"What's a privateer?" queried Stuart. 

"I was just about to tell you, " answered Cecil. "A privateer on theCaribbean and the Spanish Main, in those days, was a man who hadsufficient money or sufficient reputation to secure a ship and a crewwith which to wage war against the enemies of his country. As his owngovernment had given nothing but permission to his venture, it gainednothing but glory from it. The privateer had the right to all the bootyand plunder he could secure by capturing an enemy's ship, or raiding anenemy's settlement. The plunder was divided among the crew. Thus, alucky voyage, in which, for example, a Spanish treasure-ship wascaptured, would make every member of the crew rich. Some of theseprivateers, after one or so prosperous voyages, settled down and becamewealthy planters. The great Sir Francis Drake, on several of hisvoyages, went as a privateer. "

"And I suppose the governments gained, by having a fleet of vesselsdoing their fighting, for which they needn't pay, " commented the boy. 

"Exactly. In a way, this was fair enough. The privateer took hischance, and, whether he won or lost, he was, at least, fighting for hiscountry. But there were other men, unable to secure ships, and who couldnot obtain letters-of-marque from their governments, to whom loot andplunder seemed an easy way of gaining riches. Some of these were menfrom the crews of privateers that had disbanded, some were buccaneers. They claimed the same rights as privateers but differed in this--thatthey would attack any ship or settlement and plunder it at will. Atfirst they confined themselves to small Spanish settlements only, but, later, their desires increased, and neutral ships and inoffensivevillages were attacked. 

"In order to put a stop to the raids of the buccaneering hunters, theSpaniards planned an organized destruction of all the wild cattle onHispaniola, hoping thus to drive the ravagers away. It was a false move. The result of it was to turn the buccaneers into sea-rovers on anindependent basis, ready for plunder and murder anywhere and everywhere. At this period they were called Filibusters, but, a little later, theword 'buccaneer' came to be used for the whole group of privateers, filibusters and hunters. 

"The fury of both sides increased. So numerous and powerful did thesesea-rovers become that all trade was cut off. Neutral vessels, even ifin fleets, were endangered. With the cutting off of trade by sea, therewas no longer any plunder for the rovers and from this cause came aboutthe famous land expeditions, such as the sack of Maracaibo by Lolonnoisthe Cruel, and the historic capture of Panama by Morgan. Large citieswere taken and held to ransom. Organized raids were made, accompanied bymurder and rapine. The gallantry of privateering was degenerating intothe bloody brutality of piracy. 

"In 1632, a small group of French buccaneer hunters had left St. Kittsand, seeking a base nearer to Hispaniola, had attacked the little islandof Tortugas, on which the Spanish had left a garrison of onlytwenty-five men. Every one of the Spaniards were killed. The buccaneerstook possession, found the harbor to be excellent, and the soil of theisland exceedingly fertile. As a buccaneer base, it was ideal. Filibusters saw the value of a base so close to Spanish holdings, realized the impregnability of the harbor and flocked thither. Privateers put in and brought their prizes. Tortugas began to prosper. In 1638 the Spaniards, taking advantage of a time when several largeexpeditions of buccaneers were absent, raided the place in force andshot, hanged, or tortured to death, every man, woman and child theycaptured. Only a few of the inhabitants escaped by hiding among therocks. But the Spanish did not dare to leave a garrison. 

"The buccaneers got together and under Willis, an Englishman, reoccupiedthe island. Although Willis was English, the greater part of thebuccaneers with him were French and they gladly accepted a suggestionfrom the governor-general at St. Kitts to send a governor to Tortugas. In 1641 Governor Poincy succeeded in securing possession of the Isle ofTortugas for the Crown of France. Thus, having a shadow of protectionthrown around it, and being afforded the widest latitude of conduct byits governor--who fully realized that it was nothing but a nest ofpirates--Tortugas flamed into a mad prosperity. 

"That little desert island yonder became the wildest and most abandonedplace that the world probably has ever seen. Sea-rovers, slave-runners, filibusters, pirates, red-handed ruffians of every variety on land orsea made it their port of call. Everything could be bought there;everything sold. There was a market for all booty and everyarticle--even captured white people for slaves--was exposed for sale. Anadventurer could engage a crew of cut-throats at half-an-hour's notice. A plot to murder a thousand people in cold blood would be but streettalk. Every crime which could be imagined by a depraved and gore-heatedbrain was of daily occurrence. It was a sink of iniquity. 

"After France had taken possession of Tortugas, it came about quitenaturally that the French buccaneers found themselves better treated inthat port than the English filibusters or the Dutch Sea-Rovers. Almostimmediately, therefore, the English drew away, and established theirbuccaneer base in other islands, notably Jamaica, of which island thenotorious adventurer and pirate, Sir Henry Morgan, became governor. 

"The steady rise of Dutch power, bringing about the Dutch War of 1665, brought about a serious menace against the English power, increasedwhen, in 1666, France joined hands with Holland. Peace was signed in1667. In the next thirty years, four local West Indian wars broke out, the grouping of the powers differing. All parties also sought to controlthe trade across the Isthmus of Panama, and there was great rivalry inthe slave trade. During this period, privateers and buccaneers ceased toattack Spanish settlements only, and raided settlements belonging to anyother country than their own. During the various short intervals ofpeace between these wars, the several treaties had become more and morestringent against the buccaneers. When, therefore, in 1697, the Treatyof Ryswick brought peace between England, France, Holland and Spain, itended the period of the buccaneer. "

"I don't quite see why, " put in Stuart, a little puzzled. 

"For this reason. The buccaneers had not only existed in spite ofinternational law, they had even possessed a peculiar status as afavored and protected group. The treaty put an end to that protection. Sea-fighting thereafter was to be confined to the navies of the powers, and the true privateers and sea-rovers roved the seas no more. "

"But how about the pirates--'Blackbeard' Teach, Capt. Kidd, 'Bloody'Roberts and all the rest?" queried Stuart. 

"They were utterly different in type and habits from the buccaneers, "explained Cecil. "After the Treaty of Ryswick, piracy became aninternational crime. A harbor belonging to one of the powers could nolonger give anchorage to a pirate craft. Markets could no longer openlydeal in loot and plunder. 

"Those freebooters who had learned to live by pillage, and who thus hadbecome outlaws of the sea, were compelled to find some uninhabitedisland for a refuge. They made their new headquarters at the Island ofNew Providence, one of the Bahamas. With buccaneering ended, and piracyin process of suppression by all the naval powers, the reason forTortugas' importance was gone. It dwindled and sank until now it is amere rocky islet with a few acres under cultivation, and that is all. Iknow it well. Much treasure is said to be buried there, but no one hasever found it. Don't waste your time looking for it, boy. You will keepaway from this part of the world if you know what is good for you!"

With which menace, the Englishman fell silent, and Stuart felt it wiserto refrain from disturbing him. Even over a copiously filled lunchbasket, the three in the boat munched, without a word exchanged. 

At dusk they ran into a small cove at the easternmost end of thenorthern coast of Cuba, not far from Baracoa, the oldest city in Cubaand its first capital, where Columbus, Narvaez, Cortes and others of thegreat characters of history, played their first parts in the New World. 

Under the shadow of Anvil Mountain, the motor boat ran up to a littlewharf, almost completely hidden in greenery, and there Cecil and the boylanded. Stuart did not fail to observe that the motor boat engineerneeded no directions as to the place of landing. Evidently this cove wasfamiliar. 

On going ashore, without a word of explanation to the boy, Cecil led theway to a small hut, not far from the beach. When, in response to aknock, the door opened, he said, in Spanish:

"Ignacio, this American boy is going to Havana. You will see that hedoes not get lost on the way!"

"Si, Senor, " was the only reply, the fisherman--for so heappeared--evincing no surprise at the sudden appearance of Cecil at hisdoor, nor at his abrupt command. This absence of surprise or questionwas the strongest possible proof of the extent of the Englishman'spower, and Stuart found himself wondering to what extent thisconspirator's web extended over the West Indies. 

A phrase or two, when they were walking together through the jungle, after the parachute descent, had shown Stuart that the Englishman wasespecially well acquainted with the flora and fauna of Jamaica. He mustpossess powerful friends in Haiti, or he could never have reached theCitadel, to arrive at which point both Manuel and Leborge had beencompelled to employ tortuous methods, even to disguise. The motor boatawaiting him in the Haitian jungle showed an uncanny knowledge of thatlocality. He had mentioned that he knew the Isle of Tortugas. He wasevidently known on the Cuban coast. This plot, whatever it might be, wasassuredly of far-reaching importance, if one of the plotters found itnecessary to weave a web that embraced all the nearby islands. 

"I'm glad I didn't promise not to tell about it, " muttered the boy, ashe watched Cecil stride away without even a word of farewell, "for Imiss my guess if there isn't something brewing to make trouble for theUnited States. "

CHAPTER VI

A CUBAN REBEL

Stuart stood with the supposed fisherman at the door of the hut untilthe throbbing of the motor boat's engine had died away in the distance. Then, American fashion, he turned to the brown-skinned occupant with anair of authority. 

"Who is this man Cecil?" he asked. The phrase began boldly, but as hecaught the other's glance, the last couple of words dragged. 

Brown-skinned this fisherman might be, but the dark eyes were keen andappraising. Stuart, who was no fool, realized that his new host--or, wasit captor?--was more than he seemed. At the same time, the boyremembered that he was in rags and that his own skin was stained brown. Yet the fisherman answered his question courteously. 

"Does not the young Senor know him? Senor Cecil is an Englishman, andwealthy. "

"But what does he do?" persisted Stuart. 

The other shrugged his shoulders. 

"Can anyone tell what wealthy Englishmen do?" he queried. "They are alla little mad. "

The boy held his tongue. This evasive reply was evidence enough that hewould not secure any information by questioning. Also, Stuart realizedthat anyone whom the Englishman trusted was not likely to beloose-mouthed. 

"Senor Cecil said you were an American, " the fisherman continued, "hemeant by that----"

"Probably he meant that he knew I'd like to get this brown off my skin, "declared Stuart, realizing that his disguise was unavailing now. "Haveyou any soap-weed root?"

The Cuban bent his head and motioned the boy to enter the hut. It wassmall and clean, but did not have the atmosphere of use. Stuart guessedthat probably it was only employed as a blind and wondered how his hosthad come to know of the arrival of the motor boat. Then, rememberingthat the sound of the motor boat's engine had been heard for severalmoments, as it departed from the cove, he thought that perhaps the noiseof the "chug-chug" would be a sufficient signal of its coming, for, surely, no other motor boats would have any reason for entering sohidden a place. 

"If the young Senor will add a few drops from this bottle to the water, "commented his host, "the stain will come out quicker. "

Stuart stared at the man. The suggestion added to the strangeness of thesituation. The presence of chemicals in a fisherman's hut tallied withthe boy's general idea that this man must hold a post of someimportance in the plot. But he made no comment. 

While he was scrubbing himself thoroughly, so that his skin might showwhite once more, the fisherman prepared a simple but hearty meal. Hisablutions over, Stuart sat down to the table with great readiness, for, though he had joined Cecil in a cold snack on the motor boat, the boyhad passed through thirty-six hours of the most trying excitement, sincehis departure from Millot the morning of the day before. The food wasgood and plentiful, and when Stuart had stowed away all he could hold, drowsiness came over him, and his head began to nod. 

"When do we go to bed?" he asked with a yawn. 

The fisherman motioned to a string-bed in the corner. 

"Whenever the young Senor wishes, " was the reply. 

"And you?"

"Did you not hear Senor Cecil say that I was to be sure you did not getlost?" He smiled. "You might have dreams, Senor, and walk in your sleep. When Senor Cecil says 'Watch!' one stays awake. "

At the same time, with a deft movement, he pinioned Stuart's arms, andsearched him thoroughly, taking away his revolver and pocket knife. Noroughness was shown, but the searching was done in a businesslikemanner, and Stuart offered no resistance. As a matter of fact, he wastoo sleepy, and even the bravest hero might be cowed if he were fairlydropping for weariness. Stuart obediently sought the string-bed, and, afew seconds later, was fast asleep. 

It was daylight when he awoke. Breakfast was on the table and the boydid as much justice to the breakfast as he had to the supper. With rest, his spirits and energy had returned, but he was practically helplesswithout his revolver. Besides, on this desolate bit of beach on theeastern end of Cuba, even if he could escape from his captor, he wouldbe marooned. Such money as the boy possessed was secreted in CapHaitien, most of his friends lived in Western Cuba. If this fishermanwere indeed to aid him to get to Havana, nothing would suit him better. All through the meal he puzzled over the fisherman's rough mode of life, and yet his perfect Spanish and courtly manners. 

"If the young Senor will accompany me to the stable?" suggested hishost, when the meal was over, the mild words being backed by anundertone of considerable authority. Stuart would have liked to protest, for he was feeling chipper and lively, but, just as he was about tospeak, he remembered Andy's remark, on board the motor boat, about "foodfor fishes. " Probably Cecil's allies were ready for any kind ofbloodshed, and the boy judged that he would be wise to avoid trouble. Hefollowed without a word. 

The stables were of good size and well kept, out of all proportion tothe hut, confirming Stuart's suspicion that a house of some pretensionswas hidden in the forest nearby. A fairly good horse was hitched to astoutly-built light cart and the journey began. The driver took a rarelytraveled trail, but, at one point, an opening in the trees showed a snuglittle town nestling by a landlocked harbor of unusual beauty. 

"What place is that?" queried Stuart, though not expecting a response. 

To his surprise, the driver answered promptly. 

"That, Senor, " he said, "is Baracoa, the oldest town in Cuba, and theonly one that tourists seldom visit. "

Whereupon, breaking a long silence, Vellano--for so he had given hisname to Stuart--proceeded to tell the early history of Eastern Cuba witha wealth of imagery and a sense of romance that held the boy spellbound. He told of the peaceful Arawaks, the aboriginal inhabitants of theGreater Antilles, agriculturists and eaters of the cassava plant, growers and weavers of cotton, even workers of gold. He told of theinvasion of the meat-eating and cannibal Caribs from the LesserAntilles, of the wars between the Arawaks and Caribs, and of thehostility between the two races when Columbus first landed on theisland. He told of the enslavement of the peaceful Arawaks by theSpaniards, and of the savage massacres by Caribs upon the earliestSpanish settlements. 

From that point Vellano broke into a song of praise of the gallantry ofthe early Spanish adventurers and conquerors, the conquistadores of theWest Indies, who carried the two banners of "Christianity" and"Civilization" to the islands of the Caribbean Sea. He lamented thegoing of the Spaniards, took occasion to fling reproach at France forher maladministration and loss of Haiti, and, as Stuart was careful toobserve, he praised England and Holland as colonizing countries asheartily as he condemned the United States for her ignorance ofcolonization problems. 

This fitted in exactly with Stuart's opinion of the plot of which Cecilwas the head. Here, in Vellano, was an underling--or anotherconspirator, as it might be--favorable to England, resentful of theUnited States, and probably in a spirit of revolt against existingconditions in his own country. The boy decided to test this out bybringing up the subject a little later in the journey. 

Presently the road turned to the westward, following the valley of theToa River. Duala, Bernardo and Morales were passed, the road climbingall the time, the mountain ranges of Santa de Moa and Santa Verde risingsentinel-like on either side. The trail was obviously one for the saddlerather than for a cart, but Stuart rightly guessed that Vellano wasafraid that his captive might escape if he had a separate mount. 

They stayed that night at a small, but well-kept house, hidden in theforests. The owner seemed to be a simple guarijo or cultivator, but wasvery hospitable. Yet, when Stuart, tossing restlessly in the night, chanced to open his eyes, he saw the guarijo sitting near his bed, smoking cigarettes, and evidently wide awake and watching. It was clearthat he was keeping guard while Vellano slept. Certainly, the Englishmanhad no need to complain that his orders were unheeded!

Taking up the way, next morning, the road became little more than atrail, through forests as dense as the Haitian jungle. The guarijowalked ahead of them with his machete, clearing away the undergrowthsufficiently for the horse and cart to get through. From time to time, Velanno took his place with the machete and the guarijo sat beside theboy. Never for a moment was Stuart left alone. 

It was a wild drive. The trail threaded its way between great Ceibatrees, looming weird and gigantic with their buttressed trunks, allknotted and entwined with hanging lianas and curiously hung with airplants dropping from the branches. Gay-colored birds flashed in thepatches of sunlight that filtered through the trees. The Cubanboa-constrictor or Maja, big and cowardly, wound its great length away, and the air was full of the rich--and not always pleasant--insect lifecharacteristic of the Cuban eastern forests. 

Approaching San Juan de la Caridad, the trail widened. Machete workbeing no longer necessary, the guarijo was enabled to return, which hedid with scarcely more than an "adios" to Vellano. 

The trail now skirted the edges of deep ravines and hung dizzily on theborders of precipices of which the sharply and deeply cut MaestraMountains are so full. The forest was a little more open. Thanks to theinformation given him by Cecil during their walk through the Haitianjungle, after the parachute descent, Stuart recognized mahogany, lignumvitae, granadilla, sweet cedar, logwood, sandalwood, red sanders andscores of other hardwood trees of the highest commercial value, standinguntouched. Passing an unusually fine clump of Cuban mahogany, Stuartturned to his companion with the exclamation:

"There must be millions of dollars' worth of rare woods, here!"

"Cuba is very rich, " came the prompt reply, coupled with the grimcomment, "but Cubans very poor. "

"They are poor, " agreed Stuart, "and in this part of the island theyseem a lot poorer than in the Pinar plains, where I lived before. Why?Here, nine out of every ten of the guarijos we've seen, live like hogsin a sty. Most of the huts we've passed aren't fit for human beings tolive in. Why is it?"

Stuart had expected, and, as it turned out, rightly, that this openingwould give Vellano the opportunity to express himself on Cubanconditions as he saw them. Stuart was eager for this, for he wanted tofind out where his companion stood, and hoped to find out whether he wasripe for revolt. But he was surprised at the bitterness and vehemence ofthe protest. 

"Ah! The Rats that gnaw at the people!" Vellano cried. "The Rats thathold political jobs and grow fat! The government Rats who care fornothing except to make and collect taxes to keep the people poor! Thejob-holders of this political party, or that political party, or theother political party! What are they? Rats, all! Tax-Rats!

"Why do the guarijos live like hogs in a sty? The Rats ordain it. It isthe taxes, all on account of the taxes. Consider! All this land you see, all undeveloped land, belonging, it may be, to only a few wealthypeople, pays no tax, no tax at all. But if a man wishes to make aliving, settles on the ground and begins to cultivate it, that day, yes, that hour, the owner will demand a high rent. And why will he ask thisrent? Because, Young Senor, as soon as land is cultivated, thegovernment puts a high tax on it. The Rats punish the farmers forimproving the country. 

"What happens? I can tell you what happens in this province of Oriente. In the province of Camaguey, too. The small farmer finds a piece of goodland. He settles on it--what you Americans call 'squatting'--and, if heis wise, he says nothing to the owner. Perhaps he will not be found outfor a year or two, perhaps more, but, when he is found, he must pay abig rent and the owner a big tax. Perhaps the guarijo cannot pay. Thenhe must go away. 

"Generally he goes. In some other corner, hidden away, he finds anotherpiece of land. He squats on that, too, hoping that the tax-Rats may notfind him. He does not cultivate much land, for he may be driven off nextday. He does not build a decent house, for he may have to abandon itbefore the week's end. 

"Suppose he does really wish to rent land, build a house and have asmall plantation, and is willing to pay the rent, however high it be. Why then, Young Senor, he will learn that it will be many years beforehe finds out whether the man to whom he is paying the rent is really theowner of the land. And if he wishes to buy, it is worse than a lottery. In this part of the island no surveys have been made--except a circularsurvey with no edges marked--and land titles are all confused. Then thelawyer-Rats thrive. "

"It's not like that near Havana, " put in Stuart. 

"Havana is not Cuba. Only three kinds of people live in Havana: theRats, the tourists, and the people who live off the Rats and thetourists. They spend, and Cuba suffers. 

"For the land tax, Senor, is not all! Nearly all the money that thegovernment spends--that the Rats waste--comes from the tax on imports. No grain is grown in Cuba, and there is no clothing industry. All ourfood and all our clothes are imported, and it is the guarijo who, atthe last, must pay that tax. Young Senor, did you know that, per head ofpopulation, the poor Cuban is taxed for the necessities of life importedinto this island three and a half times as much as the rich American istaxed for the goods entering the United States?

"Even that is not all. Here, in Cuba, we grow sugar, tobacco, pineapples, and citrus fruit, like oranges, grapefruit and lemons. DoesAmerica, which made us a republic, help us? No, Young Senor, it hurtsus, hinders us, cripples us. In Hawaii, in Porto Rico, in the southernpart of the United States, live our sugar, tobacco and fruitcompetitors. Their products enter American markets without tax. Ours aretaxed. What happens? Cuba, one of the most fertile islands of the WestIndies is poor. The Cuban cultivator, who is willing to be a hardworker, gives up the fight in disgust and either tries in some way toget the dollars from the Americans who come here, or else he helps toruin his country by getting a political job. "

Stuart, listening carefully to this criticism, noticed in Vellano'svoice a note of hatred whenever he used the word "American. " Connectingthis with his own suspicion that Cecil was head of a conspiracy againstthe United States and that this supposed fisherman was evidently theEnglishman's tool, he asked, casually:

"Then you don't think that the United States did a good thing infreeing Cuba from Spain?" he hazarded. 

To the boy's surprise, his companion burst out approvingly. 

"Yes, yes, a magnificent thing! But they did not know it, and they didnot know why! The Americans thought they were championing an oppressedpeople struggling for justice. Nothing of the sort. They took the sideof one party struggling for jobs against another party struggling forjobs. But the result was magnificent. Under the last American MilitaryGovernor, Leonard Wood, Cuba advanced more in two years than she had intwo centuries. When the Americans went away, though, it was worse thanif they had never come. Cubans did not make Cuba a republic, Americansmade Cuba a republic and then abandoned us. Of course, confusionfollowed. And in the revolution of 1906 and other revolutions, theAmericans meddled, and yet did nothing. It is idle to deny that Americaninfluence is strong here! But what does it amount to? We are neitherreally free, nor really possessed. "

"But what do you want?" queried Stuart. "I don't seem to understand. Youdon't want to be a possession of Spain, you don't want to be an Americancolony, and you don't want to be a republic. What do you want?"

"Do I know?" came the vehement reply. "Does anyone in Cuba know? Doesanyone, anywhere, know? Remember, Young Senor, the Cuban guarijo doesnot feel himself to be a citizen of Cuba, as an American farmer feelshimself a citizen of the United States. He has been brought up underSpanish rule, and is, himself, Spanish in feeling. 

"What does he know about a republic? Unless he can get a political jobfor himself, unless he sees the chance to be a Rat, he cares nothingabout politics, but he will fight, at any time, under any cause, for anyleader who will promise him a bigger price for his sugar, his tobacco orhis fruit. The World War helped him, for sugar was worth gold. Butnow--if the Cuban wishes to say anything to America, he must do itthrough the Sugar Trust, the Tobacco Trust or the Fruit Trust. 

"What!" Vellano flamed out, "The United States will not answer us whenwe pray, nor listen when we speak? Then we will make her hear!"

Upon which, suddenly realizing that in this direct threat he might havesaid too much, Vellano dropped the subject. Nothing that Stuart couldsuggest would tempt him to say anything more. 

The boy had been brought up in Cuba, and, though he had never been inthis eastern part of the island, he knew that a great deal of what hiscompanion had said was true. At the same time, he realized that Vellanohad not done justice to the modern improvements in Cuba, to theextension of the railroads, the building of highways, the improvement ofport facilities, the establishment of sugar refineries, the spread offoreign agricultural colonies, the improved sanitation and water supplyand the development of the island under foreign capital. It was asfoolish, Stuart realized, for Vellano to judge all Cuba from the wildforest-land of Oriente as it is for the casual tourist to judge thewhole of Cuba from the casinos of Havana. 

Cuba is not small. Averaging the width of the State of New Jersey, itstretches as far as the distance from New York to Indianapolis. Itseastern and western ends are entirely different. Originally they weretwo islands, now joined by a low plain caused by the rising of thesea-bottom. 

Climate, soil and the character of the people vary extremely in theseveral provinces. High mountains alternate with low plains, densetropical forests are bordered by wastes and desert palm-barrens. Eightyper cent of the population are Cubans--which mean Spanish and negrohalf-breeds with a touch of Indian blood, and of all shades ofcolor--fifteen per cent Spanish and less than two per cent American. 

Foreign colonies are numerous, though small. They are to be found in allthe provinces, and exhibit these same extremes. About one-half have sunkto a desolation of misery and ruin, one-half have risen to success. AsStuart once remembered his father having said:

"I will never advise an American, with small capital, to come to Cuba. If he will devote the same amount of work to a piece of land in theUnited States that he will have to give to the land here, he will bemore prosperous, for what he may lose in the lesser fertility of theland, he will gain by the nearness of the market. There are scores ofderelicts in this island who would have led happy and useful lives inthe United States. "

Crossing the hills--by a trail which threatened to shake the cart topieces at every jolt--the two travelers reached Palenquito, and thencedescended by a comparatively good road to Vesa Grande and on to RioSeco. A mile or so out of the town, Stuart saw the gleaming lines of therailway and realized that this was to be the end of the long drive. 

"I have no money for a trip to Havana!" he remarked. 

"That is a pity, " answered Vellano gravely, who, since he had searchedthe boy's pockets, knew that only a few dollars were to be foundtherein, "but Senor Cecil said you were to go to Havana. Therefore, youwill go. "

There seemed no reply to this, but Stuart noted that, at the station, the supposed fisherman produced money enough for two tickets. 

"Are you coming, too?" queried Stuart, in surprise. 

"Senor Cecil said that I was to see that you did not get lost on theway, " came the quiet answer. 

Certainly, Stuart thought, the Englishman's word was a word of power. 

From Rio Seco, the train passed at first through heavy tropical forests, such as those in the depths of which Vellano and Stuart had just driven, but these were thinned near the railroad by lumbering operations. Themain line was joined a little distance west of Guantanamo. Thence theytraveled over the high plateau land of Central Oriente and Camaguey, onwhich many foreign colonies have settled, the train only occasionallytouching the woeful palm barrens which stretch down from the northerncoast. 

Vellano, who seemed singularly well informed, kept up a running fire ofcomment all the way, most of his utterances being colored by aresentment of existing conditions--for which he blamed the UnitedStates--and containing a vague hint of some great change to come. 

At Ciego de Avila, where a stay of a couple of hours was made, Stuart'scompanion pointed out the famous _trocha_ or military barrier which hadbeen erected by the Spaniards as a protection against the movements ofCuban insurgents, and which ran straight across the whole island. 

This barrier was a clearing, half-a-mile wide; a narrow-gauge railwayran along its entire length, as did also a high barbed-wire fence. Everytwo-thirds of a mile, small stone forts had been built. Each of thesewas twenty feet square, with a corrugated iron tower above, equippedwith a powerful searchlight. The forts themselves were pierced withloopholes for rifle fire and the only entrance was by a door twelve feetabove ground, impossible of entrance after the ladder had been drawn upfrom within. The forts were connected by a telephone line. They have allfallen into ruins and are half swallowed up by the jungle, while thehalf mile clearing is being turned into small sugar plantations. 

Beyond Ciego, the train passed again through a zone of tropical forestlands and then dropped into the level plains of Santa Clara, the centerof the sugar industry of Cuba. From there it bore northward towardMatanzas, through a belt of bristling pineapple fields. 

One station before arriving at Havana, Stuart's companion, who showedsigns of fatigue--which were not surprising since he had wakened atevery stop that the train had made during the night to see that the boydid not get off--prepared to alight. 

"You're not going on to Havana?" queried Stuart. 

"I shall step off the train here after it has started, " replied Vellano. "There will be no opportunity for you to do the same until the trainstops at the capital. Senor Cecil said only that I was to see that youdid not get lost on the way. He said nothing about what you should do inHavana. Possibly he has plans of his own. "

The train began to move. 

"Adios, Young Senor, " quoth the supposed fisherman, and dropped off thetrain. 

During the long train trip, and especially when lying awake in hisberth, Stuart had plenty of time to recall the events of the four dayssince he first met Manuel on the streets of Cap Haitien and had offeredhimself as a guide to the Citadel of the Black Emperor. Much had passedsince then, and this period of inaction gave the boy time to view theevents in their proper perspective. 

The more he thought of them, the more serious they appeared and the moreStuart became convinced that the plot was directed against United Statesauthority in Haiti. Perhaps, also, it would attack American commercialinterests in Cuba. As the train approached Havana, Stuart worked himselfup into a fever of anxiety, and, the instant the train stopped, hedashed out of the carriage and into the streets feeling that he, and healone, could save the United States from an international tragedy. 

CHAPTER VII

A NOSE FOR NEWS

Through the maze of the older streets of Havana, with their two-storyhouses plastered and colored in gay tints, Stuart rushed, regardlessly. He knew Havana, but, even if he had not known it, the boy's whole soulwas set on getting the ear of the United States Consul. It was not untilhe was almost at the door of the consulate that his promise to Cecilrecurred to him as a reminder that he must be watchful how he spoke. 

At the door of the consulate, however, he found difficulty of admission. This was to be expected. His appearance was unprepossessing. He wasstill attired in the ragged clothes tied up with string, and the agedboots he had got Leon to procure for him, to complete his disguise as aHaitian boy. Moreover, while the soap-weed wash at the fisherman's huthad whitened his skin, his face and hands still retained a smoky pallorwhich would take some time to wear off. 

In order to gain admission at all, Stuart was compelled to give somehint as to his reasons for wishing to see the consul, and, as he did notwish to divulge anything of importance to the clerk, his explanationsounded as extravagant as it was vague. His father's name would havehelped him, but Stuart did not feel justified in using it. For all heknew, his father might have reasons for not wishing to be known asconducting any such investigations. This compulsion of reserve confusedthe lad, and it was not surprising that the clerk went into thevice-consul's office with the remark:

"There's a ragged boy out here, who passes for white, with somewild-eyed story he says he has to tell you. "

"I suppose I've got to see him, " said the harassed official. "Send himin!"

This introduction naturally prejudiced the vice-consul against hisvisitor, and Stuart's appearance did not call for confidence. Moreover, the boy's manner was against him. He was excited and resentful over hisbrusque treatment by the clerk. Boy-like, he exaggerated his ownimportance. He was bursting with his subject. 

In his embarrassed eagerness to capture the vice-consul's attention andto offset the unhappy first impression of his appearance, Stuart blurtedout an incoherent story about secret meetings, and buried treasure andconspiracy, and plots in Haiti, all mixed together. His patrioticutterances, though absolutely sincere, rang with a note of insincerityto an official to whom the letters "U. S. " were not the "open sesame" ofliberty, but endless repetitions of his daily routine. 

"What wild-cat yarn is this!" came the interrupting remark. 

Stuart stopped, hesitated and looked bewildered. It had not occurred tohim that the consular official would not be as excited as himself. Hespluttered exclamations. 

"There's a Haitian, and a Cuban, and an Englishman in a conspiracyagainst the United States! And they meet in a haunted citadel! And onesaid I was to kill the other! And I got away in a parachute. And they'regoing to do something, revolution, I believe, and----"

Undoubtedly, if the vice-consul had been willing to listen, and patientenough to calm the boy's excitement and unravel the story, its valuewould have been apparent. But his skeptical manner only threw Stuartmore off his balance. The vice-consul was, by temperament, a man ofroutine, an efficient official but lacking in imagination. Besides, itwas almost the end of office hours, and the day had been hot and sultry. He was only half-willing to listen. 

"Tell your story, straight, from the beginning, " he snapped. 

Stuart tried to collect himself a little. 

"It was the night of the Full Moon, " he began, dramatically. "There wasa voodoo dance, and the tom-tom began to beat, and----"

This was too much!

"You've been seeing too many movies, or reading dime-novel trash, " theofficial flung back. "Besides, this isn't the place to come to. Go andtell your troubles to the consul at Port-au-Prince. "

He rang to have the boy shown out. 

The next visitor to the vice-consul, who had been cooling his heels inthe outer office while Stuart was vainly endeavoring to tell his story, was the Special Correspondent of a New York paper. It was his habit todrop in from time to time to see the vice-consul and to get the latestofficial news to be cabled to his paper. 

"I wish you'd been here half-an-hour ago, Dinville, and saved me fromhaving to listen to a blood-and-thunder yarn about pirates and plots andrevolutions and the deuce knows what!" the official exclaimedpetulantly. 

"From that kid who just went out?" queried the newspaper man casually, nosing a story, but not wanting to seem too eager. 

"Yes, the little idiot! You'd think, from the way he talked, that theWest Indies was just about ready to blow up!"

His bile thus temporarily relieved, the official turned to the matter inhand, and proceeded to give out such items of happenings at theconsulate as would be of interest to the general public. 

The newspaper man made his stay as brief as he decently could. He wantedto trace that boy. Finding out from the clerk that the boy had come infrom the east by train, and, having noted for himself that the lad wasin rags, the Special Correspondent--an old-time New York reporter--feltsure that the holder of the story must be hungry and that he did nothave much money. Accordingly, he searched the nearest two or three cheaprestaurants, and, sure enough, found Stuart in the third one he entered. 

Ordering a cup of coffee and some pastry, the reporter seated himself atStuart's table and deftly got into conversation with him. Inventing, forthe moment, a piece of news which would turn the topic to Haiti, Dinville succeeding in making the boy tell him, as though by accident, that he had recently been in Haiti. 

"So!" exclaimed the reporter. "Well, you seem to be a pretty keenobserver. What did you think of things in Haiti when you left?"

Stuart was flattered--as what boy would not have been--by thissuggestion that his political opinions were of importance, and he gavehimself all the airs of a grown-up, as he voiced his ideas. Many of themwere of real value, for, unconsciously, Stuart was quoting from thematerial he had found in his father's papers, when he had rescued themfrom Hippolyte. 

Dinville led him on, cautiously, tickling his vanity the while, and, before the meal was over, Stuart felt that he had found a friend. Heaccepted an invitation to go up to the news office, so that his recentlymade acquaintance might take some notes of his ideas. 

The news-gatherer had not been a reporter for nothing, and, before tenminutes had passed Stuart suddenly realized that he was on the verge oftelling the entire story, even to those things which he knew must beheld back. Cecil's warning recurred to him, and he pulled up short. 

"I guess I hadn't better say any more, " he declared, suddenly, andwondered how much he had betrayed himself into telling. 

Persuasion and further flattery failed, and the newspaper man saw thathe must change his tactics. 

"You were willing enough to talk to the vice-consul, " he suggested. 

"Yes, but I wasn't going to tell him everything, either, " the boyretorted. 

"You're not afraid to?"

Stuart's square chin protruded in its aggressive fashion. 

"Afraid!" he declared contemptuously. Then he paused, and continued, more slowly, "Well, in a way, maybe I am afraid. I don't know all I'vegot hold of. Why--it might sure enough bring on War!"

Once on his guard, Stuart was as unyielding as granite. He feared he hadsaid too much already. The reporter, shrewdly, suggested that some ofStuart's political ideas might be saleable newspaper material, handedhim a pencil and some copy-paper. 

The boy, again flattered by this subtle suggestion that he was anatural-born writer, covered sheet after sheet of the paper. Dinvilleread it, corrected a few minor mistakes here and there, counted thewords, and taking some money from his pocket, counted out a couple ofbills and pushed them over to the boy. 

"What's this for?" asked Stuart. 

"For the story!" answered the reporter in well-simulated surprise. "Regular space rates, six dollars a column. I'm not allowed to givemore, if that's what you mean. "

"Oh, no!" was the surprised reply. "I just meant--I was ready to do thatfor nothing. "

"What for?" replied his new friend. "Why shouldn't you be paid for it, just as well as anyone else? Come in tomorrow, maybe we can dope outsome other story together. "

A little more urging satisfied the rest of Stuart's scruples and hewalked out from the office into the streets of Havana tingling withpleasure to his very toes. This was the first money he had ever earnedand it fired him with enthusiasm to become a writer. 

As soon as he had left, the reporter looked over the sheets ofcopy-paper, covered with writing in a boyish hand. 

"Not so bad, " he mused. "The kid may be able to write some day, "and--dropped the sheets into the waste-paper basket. 

Why had he paid for them, then? Dinville knew what he was about. 

He reached for a sheet of copy-paper and wrote the following dispatch--

 WHALE - OF - BIG - STORY. - INFORMANT - A - KID. - WORTH - SENDING - KID - NEW - YORK - PAPER'S - EXPENSE - IF - AUTHORIZED. - DINVILLE. 

He filed it in the cable office without delay. 

Before midnight he got a reply. 

 IF - KID - HAS - THE - GOODS - SEND - NEW - YORK - AT - ONCE. 

"Here, " said Dinville aloud, as he read the cablegram, "is where LittleWillie was a wise guy in buying that kid's story. He'll land in heretomorrow like a bear going to a honey-tree. "

His diagnosis was correct to the letter. Early the next morning Stuartcame bursting in, full of importance. He had spruced up a little, thoughthe four dollars he had got from Dinville the night before was notsufficient for new clothes. 

"Say, " he said, the minute he entered the office, "Mr. Dinville, I'vegot a corker!"

"So?" queried the reporter, lighting a cigar and putting his feet on thedesk in comfortable attitude for listening. "Fire away!"

With avid enthusiasm, Stuart plunged into a wild and woolly yarn whichwould have been looked upon with suspicion by the editor of ablood-and-thunder twenty-five-cent series. 

The reporter cut him off abruptly. 

"Kid, " he said dryly, "the newspaper game is on the level. I don't saythat you don't have to give a twist to a story, every once in a while, so that it'll be interesting, but it's got to be news. 

"Get this into your skull if you're ever going to be a newspaper man:Every story you write has got to have happened, actually happened, tosomebody, somewhere, at some place, at a certain time, for some reason. If it hasn't, it isn't a newspaper story. What's more, it must be eitherunusual or important, or it hasn't any value. Again, it must havehappened recently, or it isn't news. And there's another rule. One bigstory is worth more than a lot of small ones. 

"Now, look here. You've got a big story, a real news story, up yoursleeve. It happened to you. It occurred at an unusual place. It has onlyjust happened. It's of big importance. And the why seems to be amystery. If you were a A Number One newspaper man, it would be your jobto get on the trail of that story and run it down. "

And then the reporter conceived the idea of playing on Stuart's sense ofpatriotism. 

"That way, " he went on, "it happens that there's no class of people thatdoes more for its country than the newspaper men. They show up thecrooks, and they can point out praise when public praise is due. Theyexpose the grafters and help to elect the right man to office. They rootout public evils and push reform measures through. They're Democracy, intype. "

The words fanned the fire of Stuart's enthusiasm for a newspapercareer. 

"Yes, " he said, excitedly, "yes, I can see that!"

"Take this story of yours--this plot that you speak about and are afraidto tell. You think it's planned against the United States'?"

"I'm sure it is!"

"Well, how are you going to run it down? How are you going to get allthe facts in the case? Who can you trust to help you in this? Where areyou going to get all the money that it will take? Why, Kid, if theseconspirators you talk of have anything big up their sleeve, they couldbuy people right and left to put you off the track and you'd never getanywhere! On your own showing, they've just plumped you down here inHavana, where there's nothing doing. "

"They sure have, " admitted Stuart ruefully. 

"Of course they have. Now, if you had one of the big American newspapersbacking you up, one that you could put confidence in, it would be justas if you had the United States back of you, and you'd be part andparcel of that big power which is the trumpet-voice of Democracy fromthe Atlantic to the Pacific--the Press!"

The boy's eyes began to glisten with eagerness. Every word was strikinghome. 

"But how could I do that?"

"You don't have to. It's already done!"

Stuart stared at his friend, in bewilderment. 

"See here, " he said, and he threw the cablegram on the table. "Thatpaper is willing to pay any price for a big story, if it can be provedauthentic. Proved, mind you, documents and all the rest of it. I cabledthem to know if they wanted to see you, and, if they found what you hadwas the real goods, whether they would stake you. They cabled back, right away, that you were to go up there. "

"Up where?"

"N'York. "

"But I haven't money enough to go to New York!" protested Stuart. 

"Who said anything about money? That's up to the paper. Your expensesboth ways, and your expenses while you're in N'York, will all be paid. "

"Are you sure?"

"Seeing that I'll pay your trip up there myself, and charge it up on myown expense account, of course I'm sure. There's a boat going tomorrow. "

"But you couldn't get a berth for tomorrow, " protested Stuart, though hewas weakening. He had never been to New York, and the idea of a voyagethere, with his fare and all his expenses paid, tempted him. Besides, asthe reporter had suggested, it would be almost impossible for him tocontinue the quest of Manuel, Leborge and Cecil alone. More than that, the boy felt that, if he could get a big metropolitan paper to back him, he would be in a position to find and rescue his father. 

"Can't get a berth? Watch me!" said the reporter, who was anxious toimpress upon the lad the importance of the press. And, sure enough, hecame back an hour later, with a berth arranged for Stuart in themorrow's steamer. He also advanced money enough to the boy for acomplete outfit of clothes. An afternoon spent in a Turkish bathrestored to the erstwhile disguised lad his formerly white skin. 

One sea-voyage is very much like another. Stuart made severalacquaintances on board, one of them a Jamaican, and from his travelingcompanion, Stuart learned indirectly that Great Britain's plan ofwelding her West India possessions into a single colony was still a liveissue. The boy, himself, remembering how easily he had been pumped byDinville, was careful not to say a word about the purpose of his trip. 

Thanks to Dinville's exact instructions, Stuart found the newspaperoffice without difficulty. The minute he stepped out of the elevator andon the floor, a driving expectancy possessed him. The disorderliness, the sense of tension, the combination of patient waiting and drivingspeed, the distant and yet perceptible smell of type metal and printers'ink, in short, the atmosphere of a newspaper, struck him with a sense ofdesire. 

Although Stuart's instructions were to see the Managing Editor, theyoung fellow who came out to see what he wanted, brought him up to theCity Editor's desk. The latter looked up quickly. 

"Are you the boy Dinville cabled about?"

"Yes, sir, " the boy answered. Here, though the City Editor was tentimes more commanding a personality than the vice-consul, the boy feltmore at ease. 

"Ever do any reporting?"

"No, sir. "

"What's this story? Just the main facts!"

"Are you Mr. ----" the boy mentioned the name of the Managing Editor. 

"I'll act for him, " said the City Editor promptly. 

Stuart's square chin went out. 

"I came up to see him personally, " he answered. 

The City Editor knew men. 

"That's the way to get an interview, my son, " he said. "All right, I'lltake you in to the Chief. If things don't go your way, come and see mebefore you go. I might try you on space, just to see how you shape. Dinville generally knows what he's talking about. "

Stuart thanked him, and very gratefully, for he realized that the curtmanner was merely that of an excessively busy man with a thousand thingson his mind. A moment later, he found himself in the shut-in office ofthe Managing Editor. 

"You are a youngster, " he said with a cordial smile, emphasizing theverb, and shaking hands with the boy. "Well, that's the time to begin. Now, Lad, I've time enough to hear all that you've got to say that isimportant, and I haven't a second to listen to any frills. Telleverything that you think you have a right to tell and begin at thebeginning. "

During the voyage from Havana, Stuart had rehearsed this scene. He didnot want to make the same mistake that he had made with the vice-consul, and he told his story as clearly as he could, bearing in mind the "Who, ""What, " "Why, " "When" and "Where" of Dinville's advice. 

The Managing Editor nodded approvingly. 

"I think, " he said reflectively, "you may develop the news sense. Ofcourse, you've told a good deal of stuff which is quite immaterial, and, likely enough, some of the good bits you've left out. That's to beexpected. It takes a great many years of training to make a first-classreporter. 

"Now, let me see if I can guess a little nearer to the truth of thisplot than you did. 

"You say that the only three phrases you can be sure that you heard were'Mole St. Nicholas, ' 'naval base' and 'Panama. ' That isn't much. Yet Ithink it is fairly clear, at that. The Mole St. Nicholas is a harbor inthe north of Haiti which would make a wonderful naval base--in fact, there has already been some underground talk about it--and such a navalbase would be mighty close to the Panama Canal. Suppose we start withthe theory that this is what your conspirator chaps have in mind. 

"Now, my boy, we have to find out some explanation for the meeting in soremote a place as the Citadel. Those three men wouldn't have gone toall that trouble and risked all that chance of being discovered andexposed unless there were some astonishingly important reasons. What canthese be? Well, if we are right in thinking that a naval base is whatthese fellows are after, it is sure that they would need a hinterland ofcountry behind it. The Mole St. Nicholas, as I remember, is at the endof a peninsula formed by a range of mountains, the key to which is LaFerrière. So, to make themselves safe, they would need to control bothat the same time. Hence the necessity of knowing exactly the defensiveposition of the Citadel. How does that sound to you?"

"I'd never thought of it, sir, " said Stuart, "but the way you put it, just must be right. I was an idiot not to think of it myself. "

"Age and experience count for something, Youngster, " said the ManagingEditor, smiling. "Don't start off by thinking that you ought to know asmuch as trained men. "

Stuart flushed at the rebuke, for he saw that it was just. 

"Now, " continued the Editor, pursuing his train of thought, "we have toconsider the personalities of the conspirators. You'll find, Stuart, ifyou go into newspaper work, that one of the first things to do in anybig story, is to estimate, as closely as you can, the character of themen or women who are acting in it. Newspaper work doesn't deal with coldfacts, like science, but with humanity, and humans act in queer ways, sometimes. A good reporter has got to be a bit of a detective and a gooddeal of a psychologist. He's got to have an idea how the cat is going tojump, in order to catch him on the jump. 

"Now, so far, we know that the conspirators are at least three innumber. There may be more, but we know of three. One is a Haitian negropolitician. One is a Cuban, who, from your description, seems to be alarge-scale crook. One is an Englishman, and, in your judgment, he is ofa different type from the other two. Yet the fact that he seems topossess an agent on the eastern shore of Cuba--which, don't forget, faces the Mole St. Nicholas--seems to suggest that he's deep in theplot. "

He puffed his pipe for a moment or two, and then continued, "Now, there are two powerful forces working underground in the WestIndies. One is the Spanish and negro combination, which desires to shakeoff all the British, French and Dutch possessions, and to create aCreole Empire of the Islands. The other is an English plan, to weld allthe British islands in the West Indies into a single Confederation andto buy as many of the smaller isles from France and Holland as may seempossible. Both are hostile to the extension of American power in theGulf of Mexico. Possibly, some European power is back of this plot. Aforeign naval base in the Mole St. Nicholas would be a menace to us, and one on which Washington would not look very kindly. 

"So you see, Youngster, if such a thing as this were possible, it wouldbe a big story, and one that ought to be followed up very closely. "

"That's what Dinville seemed to think, sir, " interposed the boy, "and Itold him I didn't have the money. "

"Nor have you the experience, " added the Editor, dryly. "Money isn't anygood, if you don't know how to use it. "

He pondered for a moment. 

"I can't buy the information from you, " he said, "because, so far, thestory isn't in shape to use, and I don't know when I will be able to useit. Yet I do want to have an option on the first scoop on the story. Youknow what a scoop is?"

"No, sir. "

"A 'scoop' or a 'beat' means that one paper gets hold of a big storybefore any other paper has it. It is like a journalistic triumph, if youlike, and a paper which gets 'scoops, ' by that very fact, shows itselfmore wide awake than its competitors. 

"Now, see here, Stuart. Suppose I agree to pay you a thousand dollarsfor the exclusive rights to all that you find out about the story, atwhat time it is ready for publication, and that I agree to put thatthousand dollars to your account for you to draw on for expenses. Howabout that?"

Stuart was taken aback. He fairly stuttered, "Why--sir, I--I----"

The Editor smiled at the boy's excited delight. 

"You agree?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

There was no mistaking the enthusiasm of the response. 

"Very good. Then, in addition to that, I'll pass the word that you're tobe put on the list for correspondence stuff. I'm not playing anyfavorites, you understand! Whatever you send in will be used or thrownout, according to its merits. And you'll be paid at the regular spacerates, six dollars a column. All I promise is that you shall have a lookin. "

"But that's--that's great!"

"It's just a chance to show what you can do. If there's any stuff in youat all, here is an opportunity for you to become a high-grade newspaperman. "

"Then I'm really on the staff!" cried the boy, "I'm really and truly ajournalist?"

The Managing Editor nodded. 

"Yes, if you like the word, " he said, "make good, and you'll be reallyand truly a journalist. "

CHAPTER VIII

THE POISON TREES

For a couple of days, Stuart wandered about New York, partlysight-seeing and partly on assignments in company with some of thereporters of the paper. The City Editor wanted to determine whether theboy had any natural aptitude for newspaper work. So Stuart chased aroundone day with the man on the "police court run, " another day he did"hotels" and scored by securing an interview with a noted visitor forwhom the regular reporter had not time to wait. The boy was too young, of course, to be sent on any assignments by himself, but one of theolder men took a fancy to the lad and took him along a couple of times, when on a big story. 

Just a week later, on coming in to the office, Stuart was told that theManaging Editor wanted to see him. As this was the summons for which hehad been waiting, Stuart obeyed with alacrity. The Managing Editor didnot motion him to a a chair, as before, so the boy stood. 

"First of all, Garfield----" and the boy noticed the use of thesurname--"I want to tell you that your father is safe. We've beenkeeping the wires hot to Port-au-Prince and have found out that someone resembling the description you gave me of your father commandeered asailing skiff at a small place near Jacamel and set off westward. Twodays afterward, he landed at Guantanamo and registered at a hotel as'James Garfield. ' He stayed there two days and then took the train forHavana. So you don't need to worry over that, any more. "

"Thank you, sir, " answered the boy, relieved, "I'm mighty glad to know. "

"Now, " continued the Editor, "let us return to this question for whichwe brought you here. According to your story, you heard the conspiratorssay that their plans would be ready for fulfillment next spring. "

"Yes, sir, " the boy agreed, "Leborge said that. "

"Good. Then there is no immediate need of pressing the case too closely. It will be better to let the plans mature a little. A mere plot doesn'tmean much. News value comes in action. When something actually happens, then, knowing what lies behind it, the story becomes big. 

"What we really want to find out is whether this plot--as it seems tobe--is just a matter between two or three men, or if it is widely spreadover all the islands of the West Indies. You're too young, as yet, foranything like regular newspaper work, but the fact that you're not muchmore than a youngster might be turned to advantage. No one wouldsuspect that you were in quest of political information. 

"So I'm going to suggest that you make a fairly complete tour of theislands, this fall and early winter, just as if you were idling around, apparently, but, at the same time, keeping your ears and your eyes open. In order to give color to your roamings, you can write us some articleson 'Social Life and the Color Line in the West Indies' as you happen tosee it. First-hand impressions are always valuable, and, perhaps, thefact that you see them through a boy's eyes may give them a certainnovelty and freshness. Of course, the articles will probably have to berewritten in the office. By keeping a copy of the stuff you send, andcomparing it with the way the articles appear in the paper, you'll get afair training. 

"We'll probably handle these in the Sunday Edition, and I'm going toturn you over to the Sunday Editor, to whom you'll report, in future. "

He nodded pleasantly to the boy in token of dismissal. 

"I wish you luck on your trip, " he said, "and see that you send us inthe right kind of stuff!"

Stuart thanked him heartily for his kindness, and went out, sorry thathe was not going to deal with the Chief himself. 

The Sunday Editor's office was a welter of confusion. As Stuart was tofind out, in the years to come when he should really be a newspaperman, the Sunday Editor's job is a hard one. It is much sought, since itis day work rather than night work, but it is a wearing task. The SundayEditor must have all the qualities of a magazine man and a newspaper manat the same time. He must also have the creative faculty. 

In such departments of a modern newspaper as the City, Telegraph, Sporting, Financial, etc. , the work of the reporters and editors is tochronicle and present the actual news. If nothing of vital interest hashappened during the day, that is not their fault. Their work is donewhen the news is as well covered and as graphically told as possible. 

There are no such limits in the Sunday Editor's office. He must createinterest, provoke sensation, and build the various extra sections of theSunday issue into a paper of such vital importance that every differentkind of reader will find something to hold his attention. He has all theworld to choose from, but he has also all the world to please. The work, too, must be done at high pressure, for the columns of a Sunday issue tobe filled are scores in number, and the Sunday staff of any paper--eventhe biggest--is but small. 

Fergus, the Sunday Editor, was a rollicking Irishman, with red hair anda tongue hung in the middle. He talked, as his ancestors fought, all ina hurry. He was a whirlwind for praise, but a tornado for blame. Hisorganizing capacity was marvelous, and his men liked and respected him, for they knew well that he could write rings around any one of them, ina pinch. He began as the boy entered the door, "Ye're Stuart Garfield, eh? Ye don't look more'n about a half-pint of aman. Does the Chief think I'm startin' a kindergarten? Not that I give ahang whether ye're two or eighty-two so long as ye can write. Ye'll gofirst to Barbados. Steamer sails tomorrow at eight in the morning. Here's your berth. Here's a note to the cashier. Letter of instructionsfollowing. Wait at the Crown Hotel, Bridgetown, till you get it. Don'twrite if ye haven't anything to say. Get a story across by everymail-boat. If ye send me rot, I'll skin ye. Good luck!"

And he turned to glance over his shoulder at a copy-boy who had come inwith a handful of slips, proofs and the thousand matters of the editor'sdaily grind. 

Stuart waited two or three minutes, expecting Fergus to continue, butthe Sunday Editor seemed to have forgotten his existence. 

"Well, then, good-by, Mr. Fergus, " said the boy, hesitatingly. 

"Oh, eh? Are ye there still? Sure. Good-by, boy, good-by an' good luckto ye!"

And plunged back into his work. 

There seemed nothing else for Stuart to do but to go out of the office. In the hall outside, he paused and wondered. He held in his hand the twoslips of paper that Fergus had given him, and he stared down at thesewith bewilderment. Fergus' volley of speech, had taken him clean offhis balance. 

There was no doubt about the reality of these two slips of paper. Onewas the ticket for his berth and the other had the figures "$250"scrawled across a printed form made out to the Cashier, and it wassigned "Rick Fergus. "

In his uncertainty what he ought to do, Stuart went into the City Roomand hunted up his friend the reporter. To him he put the causes of hisconfusion. The old newspaper man smiled. 

"That's Rick Fergus, all over, " he said. "Good thing you didn't ask himany questions! He'd have taken your head off at one bite. He's right, after all. If a reporter's any good at all, he knows himself what to do. A New York paper isn't fooling around with amateurs, generally. But, under the circumstances, I think Rick might have told you something. Let's see. How about your passport?"

"I've got one, " said Stuart, "I had to have one, coming up from Cuba. "

"If you're going to Barbados, you'll have to have it viséed by theBritish Consul. "

"But that will take a week, maybe, and I've got to sail tomorrow!"

"Is that all your trouble?"

He stepped to the telephone. 

"Consulate? Yes? _New York Planet_ speaking. One of our men's got tochase down to Barbados on a story. Sending him round this afternoon. Will you be so good as to visé him through? Ever so much obliged;thanks!"

He put up the receiver and turned to the boy. 

"Easy as easy, you see, " he said. "The name of a big paper like this onewill take you anywhere, if you use it right. Now, let's see. You'll wantto go and see the Cashier. Come on down, I'll introduce you. "

A word or two at the Cashier's window, and the bills for $250 wereshoved across to Stuart, who pocketed them nervously. He had never seenso much money before. 

"Next, " said the reporter, "you'd better get hold of some copy-paper, abunch of letter-heads and envelopes. Also some Expense Account blanks. Stop in at one of these small printing shops and have some cards printedwith your name and that of the paper--here, like mine!" And he pulledout a card from his card case and gave it to the boy for a model. 

Stuart was doing his best to keep up with this rapid change in hisfortunes, but, despite himself, his eyes looked a bit wild. His friendthe reporter saw it, and tapped him on the back. 

"You haven't got any time to lose, " he said. "Oh, yes, there's anotherthing, too. Can you handle a typewriter?"

"No, " answered the boy, "at least, I never tried. "

"Then you take my tip and spend some of that $250 on a portable machineand learn to handle it, on the way down to Barbados. You'll have tosend all your stuff typewritten, you know. Imagine Fergus getting ascreed from a staff man in longhand!"

The reporter chuckled at the thought. 

"Why, I believe the old red-head would take a trip down to the WestIndies just to have a chance of saying what he thought. Or, if hecouldn't go, he'd blow up, and we'd be out a mighty good Sunday Editor. No, son, you've got to learn to tickle a typewriter!"

They had not been wasting time during this talk, for the reporter hadtaken out of his own desk the paper, letter-heads, expense accountblanks and the rest and handed them over to the boy, explaining that hecould easily replenish his own supply. 

"Now, " he suggested, "make tracks for the consulate. Stop at a printer'son your way and order some cards. Then chase back and buy yourself aportable typewriter. And, if I were you, I'd start learning it, righttonight. Then, hey! Off for the West Indies again, eh?"

"But don't I go and say good-by to the City Editor, or the ManagingEditor, or anyone?"

"What for? You've got your berth, you've got your money, you're going toget your passport, and you've got your assignment. Nothing more for youto do, Son, except to get down there and deliver the goods. "

He led the way out of the office and to the elevator. On reaching thestreet, he turned to the boy. 

"There's one thing, " he said, "that may help you, seeing that you're newto the work. When you get down to Barbados, drop into the office of thebiggest paper there. Chum up with the boys. They'll see that you're ayoungster, and they'll help you all they can. You'll find newspaper menpretty clannish, the world over. Well, good-bye, Garfield, I won't belikely to see you again before you go. I've got that Traction Swindle tocover and there's going to be a night hearing. "

The boy shook hands with real emotion. 

"You've been mighty good to me, " he said, "it's made all the differenceto my stay in New York. "

"Oh! That's all right!" came the hearty reply. "Well--good luck!"

He turned down the busy street and, in a moment, was lost in the crowd. 

For a moment Stuart felt a twinge of loneliness, but the afternoon wasshort, and he had a great deal to do. It was only by hurrying that hewas able to get done all the various things that had been suggested. Despite his rush, however, the boy took time to send a cable to hisfather, telling of his own safety, for he had no means of knowingwhether or not his father might be worrying over him also. He workeduntil midnight learning the principles of the typewriter and, in a pokysort of way, trying to hammer out the guide sentences given him in theInstruction Book. Next day found him again at sea. 

In contrast with the riotous vegetation of the jungles of Haiti and thetropical forests of Eastern Cuba, Stuart found the country aroundBridgetown, the sole harbor of Barbados, surprisingly unattractive. Thecity itself was active and bustling, but dirty, dusty and mean. On theother hand, the suburbs, with villas occupied by the white residents, were remarkable for their marvelous gardens. 

On the outskirts of the town, and all over the island, in rows orstraggling clumps which seemed to have been dropped down anywhere, Stuart saw the closely clustered huts of the negroes. These were tinyhuts of pewter-gray wood, raised from the ground on a few rough stonesand covered by a roof of dark shingles. They were as simple as thehouses a child draws on his slate--things of two rooms, with two windowsand one door. The windows had sun shutters in place of glass and therewere no chimneys, for the negro housewives do their cooking out of doorsin the cool of the evening. The boy noticed that, by dark, all thesewindows and doors were closed tightly, for the Barbadian negro sleeps inan air-tight room. He does this, ostensibly, to keep out ten-inch-longcentipedes, and bats, but, in reality, to keep out "jumbies" and ghosts, of which he is much more afraid. 

[Illustration: HIS VISION DISTORTED BY THE VENOM-VAPOR OF THE POISONTREES, THE LAND-CRABS SEEMED OF ENORMOUS SIZE AND THE NEGRO WHO CAME TORESCUE HIM APPEARED AS AN OGRE. ]

The greater part of the island seemed, to the boy, utterly unlike anyplace he had seen in the tropics. Around Bridgetown, and over two-thirdsof the island of Barbados, there is hardly a tree. The ground rises inslow undulations, marked, like a checker-board, with sugar-cane fields. No place could seem more lacking in opportunity for adventures, yetStuart was to learn to the contrary before long. 

Acting upon the advice given him by his friend the reporter, in NewYork, just before leaving, Stuart seized the first opportunity to makehimself known to the newspaper men of Bridgetown. He was warmlyreceived, even welcomed, and was amazed at the ready hospitality shownhim. Moreover, when he stated that he was there to do some article on"Social Life and the Color Question" for the _New York Planet_, he foundthat he had struck a subject on which anyone and everyone he met waswilling to talk--as the Managing Editor no doubt had anticipated when hesuggested the series to the boy. 

In one respect--as almost everyone he interviewed pointed out--Barbadosdiffers from every other of the West India Islands. It is denselypopulated, so densely, indeed, that there is not a piece of landsuitable for cultivation which is not employed. The great ambition ofthe Barbadian is to own land. The spirit of loyalty to the island isincredibly strong. 

This dense population and intensive cultivation has made the strugglefor existence keen in Barbados. A job is a prize. This has made theBarbadian negro a race apart, hardworking and frugal. Until the buildingof the Panama Canal, few negroes left their island home. With the helpof his newspaper friends, Stuart was able to send to his paper a fairlywell-written article on the Barbadian negro. The boy was wise enough totake advice from his new friends how best to write the screed. 

Moreover, he learned that there was also, on the island, a very unusualand most interesting colony of "poor whites, " the descendants of Englishconvicts who had been brought to the island in the seventeenth century. These were not criminals, but political prisoners who had fought inMonmouth's Rebellion. Pitied by the planters, despised even by the negroslaves, this small colony held itself aloof, starved, and married nonebut members of their own colony. They are now mere shadows of men, withpuny bodies and witless minds, living in brush or wooden hovels andeating nothing but a little wild fruit and fish. 

Their story made another good article for Stuart's paper, and he spentalmost an entire day holding such conversation with them as he could, though their English language had so far degenerated that the boy foundit hard to understand. 

The colony is not far from the little village of Bathsheba, which Stuarthad reached by the tramway that crosses the island. The returning tramwas not due to start for a couple of hours, and so, idly, Stuartstrolled southward along the beach, which, at that point, is fringedwith curiously shaped rocks, forming curving bays shaded with thicketsof trees which curve down to the shore. Some of these weremodest-looking trees, something like apple-trees but with a longer, thinner leaf. They bore a fruit like a green apple. 

The boy, tired from his walk along the soft white sand, threw himselfdown negligently beneath the trees, in the shade, and, finding one ofthe fruits fallen, close to his hand, picked it up and half decided toeat it. An inner warning bade him pause. 

The day had been hot and the shade was inviting. A sour and yet notunpleasant odor was in the air. It made him sleepy, or, to speak morecorrectly, it made his limbs heavy, while a certain exhilaration ofspirits lulled him into a false content. Soon, under these trees, on thebeach near Bathsheba, Stuart passed into a languorous waking dream. 

And the red land-crabs, on their stilt-like legs, crept nearer andnearer. 

An hour later, one of the Barbadian negroes, coming home from his work, was met at the door of his cabin by his wife, her eyes wide with alarm. 

"White pickney go along Terror Cove. No come um back. "

"Fo' de sake!" came the astonished exclamation. "Best hop along, see!"

The burly negro, well-built like all his fellows, struck out along thebeach. He talked to himself and shook his frizzled head as he went. Hispace, which was distinctly that of hurry, betokened his disturbed mind. 

"Pickney go alone here, by golly!" he declared as he traced the printsof a booted foot on the white sand and saw that they led only in onedirection. "No come back! Dem debbil-trees, get um!"

He turned the corner and paused a minute at the extraordinary sightpresented. 

In the curve of the cove, dancing about with high, measured steps, likethat of a trained carriage-horse, was the boy, his hands clutching astout stick with which he was beating the air around him as thoughfighting some imaginary foe, in desperation for his life. The sandaround his feet was spotted, as though with gouts of blood, by the ruddyland-crabs, and, from every direction, these repulsive carrion eaterswere hastening to their prey. 

They formed a horrible alliance--the "debbil-trees" and the blood-redland-crabs!

The negro broke into a run. The old instinct of the black to serve thewhite rose in him strongly, though his own blood ran cold as he camenear the "debbil-trees. "

The crabs were swarming all about the boy. Some of the most daring wereclawing their way up his trousers, but Stuart seemed to have no eyes forthem. With jerky strokes, as though his arms were worked by a string, he struck and slashed at the air at some imaginary enemy about theheight of his waist. 

As his rescuer came nearer, he could hear the boy screaming, a harsh, inhuman scream of rage and fear and madness combined. Jerky words amidthe screams told of his terrors, "They're eating me! Their claws are all around! Their eyes! Their eyes!"

But still the strokes were directed wildly at the air, and never a blowfell on the little red horrors at his feet. 

"Ol' Doc, he say debbil-tree make um act that way, " muttered the negro, as he ran, "pickney he think um crabs big as a mule!"

Stuart, fighting for his life with what his tortured imaginationconceived to be gigantic monsters, saw, coming along the beach, thesemblance of an ogre. The pupils of his eyes, contracted by the poisonto mere pin-pricks, magnified enormously, and the negro took on theproportions of a giant. 

But Stuart was a fighter. He would not run. He turned upon his new foe. 

The negro, reckoning nothing of one smart blow from the stick, threw hismuscular arms about the boy, held him as in a vice, and picking him up, carried him off as if he were a baby. The boy struggled and screamed butit availed him nothing. 

"Pickney, he mad um sartain, " announced the negro, as he strode by hisown hut, "get him Ol' Doc good'n quick!"

Half walking and half running, but carrying his burden with ease, thenegro hurried to a well-built house, on a height of land half a mileback from the coast. The house was surrounded by a well-kept garden, butthe negro kicked the gate open without ceremony, and, still running, rushed into the house, calling, "Mister Ol' Doc! Mister Ol' Doc!"

At his cries, one of the doors into the hall opened, and a keen-eyedman, much withered, and with a scraggly gray beard, came out. The negrodid not wait for him to speak. 

"Mister Ol' Doc, " he said, "this pickney down by de debbil-trees, theygot um sartain. You potion um quick!"

The doctor stepped aside from the door. 

"Put him in there, Mark!" he directed. "Hold him, I'll be back in aminute!"

The negro threw Stuart on a cot and held him down, an easy task, now, for the boy's strength was ebbing fast. 

The doctor was back in a moment, with a small phial. He dropped a fewdrops into the boy's mouth, then, stripping him, put an open box ofointment between himself and the negro. 

"Now, Mark, " he said, "rub that stuff into his body. Don't be afraid ofit. Go after him as if you were grooming a horse. Put some elbow-greaseinto it. The ointment has got to soak in, and the skin has got to bekept warm. See, he's getting cold, now!"

The negro suited the action to the word. He rubbed with all hisstrength, and the ointment, concocted from some pungent herb, reddenedthe skin where it went in. But, a moment or two after, the rednessdisappeared and the bluish look of cold returned. 

"Faster and harder!" cried the old doctor. 

Sweat poured down from the negro's face. He ripped off jacket and shirt, and, bare to the waist, scrubbed at the boy's skin. And, if ever hestopped a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead, the doctor cried, "Faster and harder!"

Little by little, the reddening of the skin lasted longer, little bylittle the bluish tints began to go, little by little the stiffeningwhich had begun, relaxed. 

"He's coming round, " cried the doctor. "Harder, now! Put your back intoit, Mark!"

Nearly an hour had passed when the negro, exhausted and trembling fromhis exertions, sank into a chair. The doctor eyed him keenly, gave him astiff dose from a medicine glass, and returned to his patient. 

"He'll do now, " he said. "In half an hour he'll feel as well as ever, and by tomorrow he'll be terribly ill. "

"For de sake, Mister Ol' Doc, I got to rub um tomorrow?" pleaded thenegro. 

"No, not tomorrow. From now on, I've got to 'potion um, ' as you put it. "

He put his hand in his pocket. 

"Here, Mark, " he said, "is half a sovereign. That isn't for saving theboy's life, you understand, for you'd have done that any way, but forworking on him as you have. "

The negro pocketed the coin with a wide smile, but lingered. 

"I want to see um come 'round, " he explained. 

As the doctor had forecast, in half an hour's time, the color flowedback into Stuart's cheeks, his breathing became normal, and, presently, he stirred and looked around. 

"What--What----" he began, bewildered. 

"You went to sleep under the shade of some poison-trees, manchineeltrees, we call them here, " the doctor explained. "Did you eat any of thefruit?"

"I--I don't know, " replied Stuart, trying to remember. "I--I sort ofwent to sleep, that is, my body seemed to and my head didn't. And then Isaw crabs coming. At first they were only small ones, then bigger onescame, and bigger, and bigger----"

He shivered and hid his face at the remembrance. 

"There was nothing there except the regular red land-crabs, " said thedoctor, "maybe eighteen inches across, but with a body the size of yourhand. Their exaggeration of size was a delirium due to poisoning. "

"And the big, black ogre?"

"Was our friend Mark, here, " explained the doctor, "who rescued you, first, and has saved your life by working over you, here. "

Stuart held out his hand, feebly. 

"I didn't know there were any trees which hurt you unless you touchedthem, " he said. 

"Plenty of them, " answered the scientist. "There are over a hundredplants which give off smells or vapors which are injurious either to manor animals. Some are used by savages for arrow poisons, others for fishpoisons, and some we use for medicinal drugs. Dixon records a 'gas-tree'in Africa, the essential oil of which contains chlorine and the smell ofwhich is like the poison-gas used in the World War. And poison-ivy, inthe United States, will poison some people even if they only pass closeto it. "

"Jes' how does a tree make a smell, Mister Ol' Doc?" queried Mark. 

"That's hard to explain to you, " answered the scientist, turning to thenegro. "But every plant has some kind of a smell, that is, all of themhave essential oils which volatilize in the air. Some, like the bay, have these oil-sacs in the leaves, some, like cinnamon, in the bark, andso on. The smell of flowers comes the same way. "

"An' there is mo' kinds of debbil-trees 'an them on Terror Cove?"

"Plenty more kinds, " was the answer, "though few of them are as deadly. These are famous. Lord Nelson, when a young man here in Barbados, wasmade very ill by drinking from a pool into which some branches of themanchineel had been thrown. In fact, he never really got over it. "

"How about me, Doctor?" enquired Stuart. His face was flushing and itswas evident that the semi-paralysis of the first infection was passinginto a fever stage. 

"It all depends whether you ate any of the fruit or not, " the doctoranswered. "If you didn't, you're safe. But you seem to have spent anhour in that poison-tree grove, and that gives the 'devil-trees, ' asMark calls them, plenty of time to get in their deadly work. You'll comeout of it, all right, but you'll have to fight for it!"

CHAPTER IX

THE HURRICANE

For many days Stuart lay in an alternation of fever and stupor, tormented by dreams in which visions of the red land-crabs played aterrible part, but youth and clean living were on his side, and hepassed the crisis. Thereafter, in the equable climate of Barbados--oneof the most healthful of the West Indies Islands--his strength began toreturn. 

The "Ol' Doc, " as he was universally known in the neighborhood, was aneccentric scientist who had spent his life in studying the plants of theWest Indies. He had lived in the Antilles for over forty years and knewas much about the people as he did about the plant life. 

Kindly-natured, the old botanist became greatly interested in his youngpatient, and, that he should not weary in enforced idleness, sent toBridgetown for Stuart's trunk and his portable typewriter. Day by daythe boy practised, and then turned his hand to writing a story of hisexperiences with the "debbil-trees" which story, by the way, he had torewrite three times before his host would let him send it. 

"Writing, " he would say, "is like everything else in the world. You cando it quickly and well, after years of experience, but, at thebeginning, you must never let a sentence pass until you are sure thatyou cannot phrase it better. "

Moreover, as it turned out, the Ol' Doc was to be Stuart's guide in moresenses than one, for when the boy casually mentioned Guy Cecil's name, the botanist twisted his head sidewise sharply. 

"Eh, what? Who's that?" he asked. "What does he look like?"

Stuart gave a description, as exact as he could. 

"Do you suppose he knows anything about flowers?"

"He seemed to know a lot about Jamaica orchids, " the boy replied. 

The botanist tapped the arm of his chair with definite, meditative taps. 

"That man, " he said, "has always been a mystery to me. How old would youtake him to be?"

"Oh, forty or so, " the boy answered. 

"He has looked that age for twenty years, to my knowledge. If I didn'tknow better, I should believe him to have found the Fountain ofPerpetual Youth which Ponce de Leon and so many other of the earlySpanish adventurers sailed to the Spanish Main to find. "

"But what is he?" asked Stuart, sitting forward and eager in attention. 

"Who knows? He is the friend, the personal friend, of nearly everyimportant man in the Caribbean, whether that official be British, Frenchor Dutch; he is also regarded as a witch-master by half the blackpopulation. I have met him in the jungles, botanizing--and he is a goodbotanist--I have seen him suddenly appear as the owner of a sugarplantation, as a seeker for mining concessions, as a merchant, and as ahotel proprietor. I have seen him the owner of a luxurious yacht; I havemet him, half-ragged, looking for a job, with every appearance ofpoverty and misery. "

"But, " cried the lad in surprise, "what can that all imply? Do yousuppose he's just some sort of a conspirator, or swindler, sometimesrich and sometimes poor, according to the hauls he has made?"

"Well, " said the botanist, "sometimes I have thought he is the sort ofman who would have been a privateer in the old days, a 'gentlemanbuccaneer. ' Maybe he is still, but in a different way. Sometimes, I havethought that he was attached to the Secret Service of some government. "

"English?"

"Probably not, " the scientist answered, "because he is too English forthat. No, he is so English that I thought he must be for some othergovernment and was just playing the English part to throw offsuspicion. "

"German?"

"It's not unlikely. "

Whereupon Stuart remembered the guarded way in which the Managing Editorhad spoken of "European Powers, " and this thought of Cecil threw himback upon his quest. 

"I'll soon have to be going on to Trinidad, " he suggested a day or twolater. "I think I'm strong enough to travel, now. "

"Yes, " the old botanist answered, "you're strong enough to travel, butyou'd better not go just now. "

"Why not?"

"Well----" the old West Indian resident cast a look at the sky, "thereare a good many reasons. Unless I'm much mistaken, there's wind about, big wind, hurricane wind, maybe. I've been feeling uneasy, ever sincenoon yesterday. Do you see those three mares'-tail high-cirrus clouds?"

"You mean those that look like feathers, with the quills so much thickerthan usual?"

"Yes, those. And you notice that those quills, as you call them, are notparallel, but all point in the same direction, like the sticks of a fan?That means a big atmospheric disturbance in that direction, and itmeans, too, that it must be a gyrating one. That type of cirrus cloudsisn't proof of a coming hurricane, not by a good deal, but it's one ofthe signs. And, if it comes, the center of it is now just about wherethose mares'-tails are pointing. "

"You're really afraid of a hurricane!" exclaimed Stuart, a littlealarmed at the seriousness of the old man's manner. 

"There are few things in the world of which one ought more to beafraid!" declared the old scientist dryly. "A hurricane is worse, farworse, than an earthquake, sometimes. "

Stuart sat silent for a moment, then, "Are there any more signs?" he asked. 

"Yes, " was the quiet answer. "Nearly all the hurricane signs arebeginning to show. Look at the sea! If you'll notice, the surface isfairly glassy, showing that there is not much surface wind. Yet, inspite of that, there is a heavy, choppy, yet rolling swell coming up onthe beach. "

"I had noticed the roar, " Stuart agreed, "one can hear it plainly fromhere. "

"Exactly. But, if you watch for a few minutes, you'll see that theswells are not long and unbroken, as after a steady period of strongwind from any quarter, but irregular, some of the swells long, someshort. That suggests that they have received their initial impulse froma hurricane, with a whirling center, the waves being whipped by guststhat change their direction constantly. 

"Notice, too, how hollow our voices sound, as if there were a queerresonance in the air, rather as if we were talking inside a drum. 

"You were complaining of the heat this morning, and, now, there ishardly any wind. What does that mean?

"It means that the trade wind, which keeps this island cool even in thehottest summer, has been dying down, since yesterday. Now, since thetrade winds blow constantly, and are a part of the unchanging movementsof the atmosphere, you can see for yourself that any disturbance of theatmosphere which is violent enough to overcome the constant current ofthe trade winds must be of vast size and of tremendous force. 

"What can such a disturbance be? The only answer is--a hurricane. 

"Then there's another reason for feeling heat. That would be if the airwere unusually hazy and moist. Now, if you'll observe, during thismorning and the early part of the afternoon, the air has been clear, then hazy, then clear again, and is once more hazy. That shows a rapidand violent change in the upper air. 

"So far, so good. Now, in addition to observations of the clouds, thesea and the air at the surface, it helps--more, it is all-important--tocheck these observations by some scientific instrument which cannot lie. For this, we must use the barometer, which, as you probably know, ismerely an instrument for weighing the air. When the air is heavier thebarometer rises, when the air grows lighter, the barometer falls. 

"Yesterday, the barometer rose very high, much higher than it would inordinary weather. This morning, it was jumpy, showing--as the changes inthe haziness of the air showed--irregular and violent movements in theupper atmosphere. It is now beginning to go down steadily, a littlefaster every hour. This is an almost sure sign that there is a hurricanein action somewhere, and, probably, within a few hundred miles of here. 

"But tell me, Stuart, since we have been talking, have you noticed anychange in the atmosphere, or in the sky. "

"Well, " answered the boy, hesitating, for he did not wish to seemalarmist, "it did seem to me as if there were a sort of reddish color inthe sky, as if the blue were turning rusty. "

"Watch it!" said the botanist, with a note of awe in his voice, "and youwill see what you never have seen before!"

For a few moments he kept silence. 

The rusty color gradually rose in intensity to a ruby hue and then to anangry crimson, deepening as the sun sank. 

Over the sky, covered with a milky veil, which reflected this glowingcolor, there began to rise, in the south-west, an arch of shreddedcirrus cloud, its denser surface having greater reflecting powers, seeming to give it a sharp outline against the veiled sky. 

The scientist rose, consulted the barometer, and returned, looking verygrave. 

"It looks bad, " he said. "There is not much doubt that it will strikethe island. "

"Take to the hurricane wing, then!" suggested Stuart, a littlejestingly. In common with many Barbados houses, the botanist's dwellingwas provided with a hurricane wing, a structure of heavy masonry, withonly one or two narrow slits to let in air, and with a roof like a guncasemate. 

There was no jest in the Old Doctor's tone, as he answered, "I have already ordered that provisions be sent there, and that theservants be prepared to go. "

This statement brought Stuart up with a jerk. In common with manypeople, it seemed impossible to him that he would pass through one ofthe great convulsions of nature. Human optimism always expects to escapea danger. 

"But this is the beginning of October!" the boy protested. "I alwaysthought hurricanes came in the summer months. "

"No; August, September and October are the three worst months. That isnatural, for a hurricane could not happen in the winter and even theearly summer ones are not especially dangerous. But the signs of thisone are troubling. Look!"

He pointed to the sea. 

The rolling swell was losing its character. The water, usually either aturquoise-blue or a jade-green, was now an opaque olive-black. The waveswere choppy, and threw up small heads of foam like the swirl ofcross-currents in a tide-rip. 

Stuart began to feel a little frightened. 

"Do you really think it will come here?"

"Yes, " said the botanist gravely, "I do. In fact I am sure of it. Barbados is full in the hurricane track, you know. "

"But why?" queried the boy. "I've always heard of West Indianhurricanes. Do they only happen here? I don't see why they should comehere more than any other place. "

"Do you know why they come at all?"

Stuart thought for a moment. 

"No, " he answered, "I don't know that I do. I never thought anythingabout it. I always figured that storms just happened, somehow. "

"Nothing 'just happens, '" was the stern rebuke. "Hark!"

He held up his finger for silence. 

A low rumbling, sounding something like the pounding of heavy surf on abeach heard at a distance, and closely akin to the sound made by NiagaraFalls, seemed to fill the air. And, across the sound, came cracks likedistant pistol shots heard on a clear day. 

The white arch rose slowly and just underneath it appeared an arch ofdarker cloud, almost black. 

At the same moment, came a puff of the cool wind from the north. 

"We will have it in less than two hours, " said the scientist. "It is agood thing that all afternoon I have had the men and women on the placenailing the shutters tight and fastening everything that can befastened. We may only get the edge of the hurricane, we may get thecenter. There is no telling. An island is not like a ship, which candirect its course so as to escape the terrible vortex of the center. We've got to stay and take it. "

"But has every hurricane a center?" queried the boy, a little relievedby the thought that the storm would not come for two hours. In thattime, he foolishly thought, it might have spent its force. He did notknow that hurricanes possess a life of their own which endures not lessthan a week, and in one or two cases, as long as a month. 

"You wouldn't ask whether every hurricane has a center, " the scientistreplied, "if you knew a little more about them. As there is nothing forus to do but wait, and as it is foolish to go to the hurricane winguntil the time of danger, I might as well explain to you what ahurricane really is. Then, if you live through it----" Stuart jumped atthe sudden idea of the imminent danger--"you'll be able to write to yourpaper about it, intelligently. "

"I'd really like to know, " declared Stuart, leaning forward eagerly. 

"Well, " said his informant, "I'll make it as simple as I can, though, Iwarn you, a hurricane isn't a subject that can be explained in asentence or two. 

"You know that summer and winter weather are different. You ought to beable to see that summer and winter winds are different. The differencein seasons is caused by the respective positions of the northern andsouthern hemispheres to the sun. The greater the heat, the greater theatmospheric changes. Hurricanes are great whirls caused by violentchanges of the air. Therefore hurricanes come only in the summer. "

"That's clear and easy!" declared the boy, delighted that he was able tofollow the explanation. 

"Now, as to why hurricanes strike here and nowhere else. I'll try andexplain that, too. There is a belt of ocean, just north of and on theequator, known as the 'doldrums, ' where it is nearly always calm, andvery hot. There is also a belt of air running from Southern Europe tothe West Indies where the north-east trade winds blow all the yearround. Between this perpetual calm of the doldrums and the perpetualwind of the trades is a region of atmospheric instability. 

"Now, consider conditions to the west of us. The Caribbean Sea and theGulf of Mexico, together, form what is almost a great inland sea withthe West Indian Islands as its eastern shore. The trade winds do notreach it. The Pacific winds do not reach it, for they are diverted bythe high ranges of Central America. The winds from North America do notreach it, because these always turn northwards on reaching theMississippi Valley and leave the United States by the St. LawrenceValley. 

"So, Stuart, you can see that the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexicohave over them, in summer, a region of air, little disturbed by wind, not far from the Equator and which, therefore, becomes steadily heatedand steadily saturated by the evaporation from the body of waterbelow. "

"Yes, " agreed the boy, "I can see that. "

"Very good. Now, such a steady heating of one section of air is bound todisturb the balance of the atmosphere. This disturbance, moreover, mustbe acted upon by the rotation of the earth. Just as all the weather inthe United States comes from the west and travels eastwards, so thetrack of hurricane origins travels eastwards during the course of asummer. 

"For this reason, West Indian hurricanes in June generally have theirorigin west of Jamaica, July hurricanes east of Jamaica, Augusthurricanes in the eastern Caribbean, September hurricanes in theAtlantic east and south of the West Indies, and October hurricanes farout to sea, perhaps even as far as half-way to the Cape Verde Islands onthe shores of Africa. This hurricane which is approaching, is from thedirection of East-South-East, judging from the barometer and otherconditions, and probably had its cradle a thousand or more miles away. "

"And it hasn't blown itself out?"

"Far from it. It is only gathering strength and violence. Not until ittwists off on its track will it begin to diminish. For hurricanes followa regular track, an invisible trail marked out for them in the sky. "

"They do!"

"Yes, all of them. This track is shaped like a rounded cone, or, moreoften, like a boomerang, with a short arm running north-westwards toits place of turning and a long arm running northeastwards until itsforce is spent. The point of turning is always in the West Indies zone. As the storm is at its worst at the point of turning, it is always inthe West Indies that the hurricane is most destructive. 

"No matter where they start, West Indian hurricanes always sweepnorth-westward until they have crossed the line of the West Indies andthen wheel around sharply to the north-east, skirting the United Statescoast. Some strike Florida. A good many run along the coast and hitHatteras. Some never actually touch the continent at all, and only a fewever strike inland. But some part of the West Indies is hit by every oneof them. "

"Are they so frequent?"

"There's never a year without one or more. There have been years withfive or six. Of course, some hurricanes are much more violent thanothers. Their destructive character depends a good deal, too, on theplace where their center passes. Thus if, at the moment of its greatestfury, the full ferocity of the whirl is expended on the ocean, not muchharm is done. But if it should chance to descend upon a busy andthriving city, the loss of life will be appalling. 

"Of these disastrous hurricanes, it would be fair to state that at leastonce in every four years, some part of the West Indies is going tosuffer a disaster, and once in every twenty years there is a hurricaneof such violence as to be reckoned a world calamity. "

The botanist rose, took another look at the barometer, and called one ofthe older servants. 

"Send every one into the hurricane wing, " he said. "See that the stormlantern is there, filled and lighted. Tell the cook to pour a pail ofwater on the kitchen fire before she leaves. See, yourself, that everyplace is securely fastened. The rain will be here in ten minutes. "

The negro, who was gray with fright, flashed a quick look of relief atthe orders to seek the hurricane wing, and ran off at full speed. 

"The first rain-squalls will not be bad, " continued the "Old Doc, " "andI like to stay out as long as I can, to watch its coming. It will benearly dark when this one strikes us, though, and there won't be much tosee. "

"But what starts them, sir?" queried the boy, who had become intenselyinterested, since the grim phantasmagoria was unfolding itself on seaand sky before his eyes. 

"As I have told you, it is the creation of a super-heated and saturatedmass of air, only possible in a calm region, such as the Caribbean westof the West Indies, or the doldrum region southeast of them. Let me showyou how it happens. 

"A region of air, over a tropical sea, little moved by wind-currents, becomes warmer than the surrounding region of air; the air over thisregion becomes lighter; the lighter air rises and flows over the colderlayers of surrounding air, increasing the pressure on that ring andincreasing the inward flow to the warm central area where the airpressure has been diminished by the overflow aloft. The overflowing airreaches a point on the outside of the cold air area, when it againdescends, and once more flows inward to the center, making a completecircuit. Do you understand so far?"

Stuart knitted his brows in perplexity. 

"I--I think so, but I'm not sure, " he said. "Then the barometer rose, yesterday, because we were in the cold air area, which became heavierbecause there was a layer of warm air on the top of it. The storm hasmoved westward. The cold air section has passed. The barometer isfalling now because we're in the region of warm air, which is steadilyrising and is therefore lighter. That shows we're nearer to the center. Is that it?"

The scientist tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair in pleasedappreciation. 

"Very good, " he said, "you are exactly right. And, from now on, thebarometer will drop suddenly, for the whirl of the wind will make apartial vacuum in the very center of the hurricane. "

"But I don't see what makes it whirl, " protested the boy. "If it goes upin the middle, flows over at the top and comes down at the outside andthen flows into the middle again, why could it not keep on doing thatall the time, until the balance was put straight again?"

"It would, " the scientist agreed, "but for one thing you haveforgotten. "

"And what's that?"

"The rotation of the earth. "

A single drop of rain fell, then another, making a splash as large as atwenty-five cent piece. 

"Now see it come!" said the scientist. 

As though his words had summoned it, a liquid opacity, like a piece ofclouded glass, thrust itself between their eyes and the landscape. Sosuddenly it came that Stuart actually did not realize that this wasfalling rain, until, looking at the ground, he saw the earth dissolveinto mud before his eyes and saw the garden turn into what seemed likethe bed of a shallow river. The wind whistled with a vicious note. Thesquall lasted scarcely a minute, and was gone. 

"That's the first, " remarked the boy's informant. "We'd better get undershelter, they'll come fast and furious soon. "

Passing through a low passage connecting the house with the hurricanewing, Stuart noticed that, beside the massiveness of the structure, itwas braced from within. 

"In case the house should fall on it, " the scientist observed, notingStuart's glances. "I've no wish to be buried alive. In any case, I keepcrowbars in the wing, so that, in case of any unforeseen disaster, abreach could be made in the walls and we could get out that way. "

They entered the hurricane wing. It was not as dark as Stuart hadexpected. The scientist, anxious to observe the storms when they shouldcome, had built into the wall two double dead-eye windows, such as areused in the lower decks of liners and which can resist the impact of theheaviest waves. 

The crimson light had gone. The vivid sunset reflections, now thrownback from the black arch, yet gave a reddish smokiness to the livid andsickly green which showed, from time to time, beneath the underhangingmasses of inky black. The sky to the north and to the south had atortured appearance, as though some demon of a size beyond imaginingwere twisting the furies of the tempest in his clutch. 

"You asked, " said the scientist, speaking in the hurricane wing, asquietly as he had on the verandah, and paying absolutely no heed to themoaning and praying of the negroes huddled in the darkest corner, "whatmakes a hurricane whirl. Yet, in the heavens, you can see the skiesa-twist!"

A second rain-squall struck. Thick as were the walls, they could notkeep out the wailing shriek of the wind, nor the hissing of the rain, which flashed like a continuous cutting blade of steel past the windows. The hurricane wing could not rock, it was too low and solidly plantedfor that, but it trembled in the impact. 

After a couple of minutes came a lull, and Stuart's ears were filledwith the cries and howling of the frightened negroes, not a sound ofwhich had been audible during the squall. The scientist continued histalk in an even voice, as peacefully as though he were in his study. 

"You asked what could set the skies a-twist. I told you, the earth'srotation. For, Stuart, you must remember that a hurricane is not a smallthing. This heated region of the air of which we have been speaking, with its outer belt of cooler air, and the descending warm air beyond, is a region certainly not less than five hundred miles in diameter andmay be a great deal more. 

"Now, the air, as you know, is held to the earth's surface bygravitation, but, being gaseous, it is not held as closely as if it werein a solid state. Also, there is centrifugal force to be considered. Also the fact that the earth is not round, but flattened at the poles. Also the important fact that air at the equator is more heated than atthe Polar regions. All these things together keep the air in a constantcommotion. The combined effect of these, in the northern hemisphere, isthat air moving along the surface of the earth is deflected to theright. Thus in the case we are considering, the lower currents, approaching the heated center, do not come in equally from alldirections, but are compelled to approach in spirals. This spiral actiononce begun increases, of itself, in power and velocity. This is ahurricane in its baby stage. "

Another squall struck. 

Speech again became impossible. As before, sheets of water--which boreno relation to rain, but seemed rather as though the earth were at thefoot of a waterfall from which a river was leaping from on high--werehurled over the land. The shrieking of the wind had a wild and maniacalsound, the sound which Jamaicans have christened "the hell-cackle of ahurricane. " This squall lasted longer, five minutes or more, and when itpassed, the wind dropped somewhat, but did not die down. It ragedfuriously, its shriek dropped to a sullen and menacing roar. 

"Such a hurricane as this, " the "Ol' Doc" continued, "has taken manydays to brew. Day after day the air has remained in its ominous quietudeover the surface of the ocean, becoming warmer and warmer, gatheringstrength for its devastating career. The water vapor has risen higherand higher. Dense cumulus clouds have formed, the upper surfaces ofwhich have caught all the sun's heat, intensifying the unstableequilibrium of the air. The powers of the tempest have grown steadily inall evil majesty of destructiveness. Day by day, then hour by hour, thenminute by minute, the awful force has been generated, as steam isgenerated by fierce furnace fires under a ship's boilers. 

"Why, Stuart, it has been figured that the air in a hurricane a hundredmiles in diameter and a mile high, weighs as much as half-a-millionAtlantic liners, and this incredibly huge mass is driven at twice thespeed of the fastest ship afloat. In these gusts, which come with therain squalls, the wind will rise to a velocity of a hundred and twentymiles an hour. It strikes!"

A crack of thunder deafened all, and green and violet lightning winkedand flickered continuously. The hiss of the rain, the shrieking of thewind and the snapping crackle of the thunder defied speech. The heat inthe hurricane wing was terrific, but Stuart shivered with cold. It wasthe cold of terror, the cold of helplessness, the cold of beingpowerless in such an awful evidence of the occasional malignity ofNature. 

Between the approach of night and the closing in of the clouds, an inkydarkness prevailed, though in the intervals between the outbursts oflightning, the sky had a mottled copper and green coloration, the copperbeing the edges of low raincloud-masses, and the green, the flying scudabove. 

Squall followed squall in ever-closer succession, the uproar changingconstantly from the shriek of the hundred-mile wind in the squall to thedull roar of the fifty-mile wind in between. The thunder crackled, without any after-rumble, and the trembling of the ground could be feltfrom the pounding of the terrific waves half a mile away. Then, in along-drawn-out descending wail, like the howl of a calling coyote, thehurricane died down to absolute stillness. 

"Whew!" exclaimed Stuart, in relief. "I'm glad that's over. "

"Over!" the scientist exclaimed. "The worst is to come! We're in the eyeof the hurricane. Look!"

Overhead the sky was almost clear, so clear that the stars could beseen, but the whirl of air, high overhead, made them twinkle so thatthey seemed to be dancing in their places. To seaward, a violet glow, throbbing and pulsating, showed where the lightning was playing. 

"I'm going out to see if all's safe, " said the scientist. "Do you wantto come?"

Stuart would have rather not. But he dared not refuse. They had hardlyleft the hurricane wing and got to the outside, when "Ol' Doc" sniffed. 

"No, " he said, "we'll go back. We're not full in the center. The edgewill catch us again. "

He pointed. 

Not slowly this time, but with a swiftness that made it seem unreal, ashape like a large hand rose out of the night and blotted out the stars. A distant clamor could be heard, at first faintly, and then with agrowing speed, like the oncoming of an express train. 

"In with you, in!" cried the scientist. 

They rushed through the low passage and bolted the heavy door. 

Then with a crash which seemed enough to tear a world from its moorings, the opposite side of the hurricane struck, all the worse in that it camewithout even a preparatory breeze. The noise, the tumult, the sense ofthe elements unchained in all their fury was so terrible that the boylost all sense of the passage of time. The negroes no longer moaned orprayed. A stupor of paralysis seized them. 

So passed the night. 

Towards morning, the painful rarefaction of the air diminished. Thesqualls of rain and all-devouring gusts of wind abated, and became lessand less frequent. 

The sky turned gray. Upon the far horizon rose again the cirrus arc, butwith the dark above and the light below. Majestically it rose andspanned the sky, and, under its rim of destruction, came the sunrise inits most peaceful colors of rose and pearl-gray, sunrise upon a ravagedisland. 

Over three hundred persons had been killed that night, and many millionsof dollars of damage done. Yet everyone in Barbados breathed relief. 

The hurricane had passed. 

CHAPTER X

THE LAKE OF PITCH

Still weak from his illness after the manchineel poisoning, andexhausted as he was after a sleepless night in the grip of a hurricane, yet Stuart's first thought on leaving the hurricane wing was to get anews story to his paper. The spell of journalism was on him. 

Around the "Ol' Doc's" place, the hurricane seemed to have done littledamage. Not a building had fallen. Trees were stripped bare of theirleaves, cane-fields laid low, but when the boy commented on this escape, the old scientist shook his head. 

"I built these structures with hurricanes in view, " he said. "This oldplace will stand like a lighthouse. But you'll find it different in thenegro quarters. Alas! You will find mourning, everywhere. "

At the boy's urgency the botanist agreed to lend him a horse and lightcarriage and bade one of the negroes drive the lad to Bridgetown. Ahasty breakfast was swallowed, and, before six in the morning, Stuartwas on his way back across the island, his faithful typewriter besidehim. 

They had not gone far before the real tragedy of the hurricane began toshow itself. Here was a house in splinters, and a group of people, crying, with bowed heads, told that death had been there. The fieldswere stripped bare. Near Corrington, a sugar factory showed a piece ofbroken wall as all that remained. The road had been washed away by thetorrential floods. 

In a small settlement, some negroes were working in a frenzy around amass of ruined cottages, from beneath which sounded dolorous cries. Thecarriage stopped and both Stuart and the driver leaped out to aid. Tenminutes' work unearthed three sufferers, two but slightly hurt, thethird with his leg broken. Alas! Others were not so fortunate. 

Rising smoke, here and there, showed where fire had followed thehurricane. Instead of the songs of labor in the fields, nothing was tobe heard but cries of distress. As the country grew more thicklysettled, on the way to Bridgetown, so was the suffering more intense andthe death-roll heavier. The drive, not more than twelve miles in all, took over four hours, so littered was the road with fallen trees and thedébris of houses. 

In the ruins of Bridgetown, Stuart met one of his newspaper friends, thenews instinct still inspiring him to secure every detail of thecatastrophe, though there was no newspaper office, the building being inruins and the presses buried under an avalanche of brick. 

"The wires are down, too, " said this newspaper man, "if I were you, I'dchase right over to Trinidad. The mail steamer, which should have gonelast night, hasn't left yet, or, at least, I don't think she has. Shecouldn't leave till the hurricane passed and the sea calmed down a bit. At present, we are cut off from the world. It'll take two or three days, a week, maybe, before the shore ends of the submarine cables arerecovered. If you can catch that steamer, you'll be in Trinidad thisevening. "

"But suppose the cables are broken there, too?" suggested Stuart. 

"They're not likely to be, " his friend replied, "we just caught thesouthern end of the hurricane here--lucky we didn't get the middle!--andso Trinidad is likely to have escaped entirely. But you'll have to hurryto catch that steamer. I'll get in touch with Ol' Doc, the best way Ican, and send your trunk on to you down there. Got your typewriter?That's all right, then. Write your story on the boat. Now, hurry up!Here!"

He shouted to a passing negro. 

"Go down to the pier, Pierre, get a boat, any boat, and take thispassenger. He's got to catch the steamer. "

"Me catch um!"

And he did, though it was by the narrowest margin, for the mail steamerhad steam up, and only waited until this last passenger should comeaboard. 

Stuart had counted on being able to enrich his account of the hurricanewith personal stories from the passengers on the steamer, all of whomhad been through the disaster, some on board ship and some ashore. Therewas no chance of this. Although a glorious day, not a soul among thepassengers was on deck. All were sleeping, for all, alike, had waked andwatched. 

Stuart was dropping with weariness and sleep, but he remembered what theManaging Editor had said to him about a "scoop" and he thought that thismight be the great opportunity of his life to make a reputation forhimself on his first trip out. A well-placed half-sovereign with thedeck steward brought him a cup of strong coffee every two hours, andthough his mind was fogged with weariness, so vivid had been hisimpressions that they could not help but be thrilling. 

Though one of the most richly verdant of all the West India islands, Trinidad had little beauty to Stuart, on his first sight of it. He sawit through a haze of weariness, his eyes red-rimmed through lack ofsleep. The harbor is shallow, and Stuart, like other passengers, landedin a launch, but he had eyes only for one thing--the cable office. Sincehis only luggage consisted of a portable typewriter--his trunk havingbeen left behind at "Ol' Doc's"--the customs' examination was brief. 

At the Cable Office, Stuart learned, to his delight, that not a messagehad either reached the office or gone out about the Barbados hurricane. He had a scoop. He put his story on the wires, staggered across thestreet to the nearest hotel, threw off coat and boots and dropped uponthe bed in an exhausted slumber. And, as an undercurrent to his dreams, rang the triumph song of the journalist:

"A Scoop!"

Stuart slept the clock round. It was evening again when he awoke. A washto take the sleep out of his eyes, and down he went to see how big adinner he could put away. But the doorman at the hotel, an East Indian, came forward to him with a telegram on a salver. The boy tore it open, and read:

 "GOOD--STUFF--SEND--SOME MORE--FERGUS. "

And if Stuart had been offered the Governor Generalship of all the WestIndian Islands put together, he could not have been more proud. 

He spent the evening interviewing some of the passengers who had come onthe mail steamer the day before and who had stayed in Port of Spain and, before midnight, filed at the cable office a good "second-day story. "Remembering what his friend the reporter had told him, Stuart realizedthat though he was still sending this matter to Fergus, as it wasstraight news stuff, it probably was being handled by the NightTelegraph staff. That would not help to fill Fergus' columns in theSunday issue, and the boy realized that, no matter what live day stuffhe got hold of, he must not fall behind in his series of articles on theColor Question in the West Indies. 

This question--which takes on the proportions of a problem in everyoneof the West Indian Islands--was very different in Trinidad than inBarbados. The peoples and languages of Trinidad are strangely mixed. Though it is an English colony, yet the language of the best families isSpanish, and the general language of the negro population is CreoleFrench, a subvariant of that of Haiti. The boy found, too, on his firstlong walks in the neighborhood of Port-of-Spain, that there was a largeouter settlement of East Indian coolies, and quite a number of Chinese. The English, in Trinidad, were few in number. 

In his quest for interviews about the hurricane, one of the chattiest ofStuart's informants had been a Mr. James, a resident of Barbados, butwhose commercial interests were mainly in Trinidad. Since, then, thisgentleman evidently knew the life in both islands, his comparisons wouldbe of value, and the following day Stuart asked him for a secondinterview. 

"I'm starting out to my place on the Nariva Cocal, " the planter replied, "going in about an hour. Very glad to have you as my guest, if you wish, and the trip will give you a good view of the island. Then we can chaton the way. "

Stuart jumped at the opportunity. This was exactly what he was after, for the Nariva Cocal, with its thirteen-mile long coco-nut grove on theshore of the ocean, is famous. The boy knew, too, that this section wasvery difficult of access, the Nariva River forming a mixture of river, tidal creek, lagoon, mangrove swamp and marsh, hard to cross. 

For some little distance out of Port-of-Spain the train passed throughtrue tropical forests of a verdure not to be outrivaled in any part ofthe New World. "Here, " says Treves, "is a very revel of green, a hoard, a pyramid, a piled-up cairn of green, rising aloft from an iris-bluesea. Here are the dull green of wet moss, the clear green of theparrot's wing, the green tints of old copper, of malachite, of the wildapple, the bronze-green of the beetle's back, the dead green of theautumn Nile. " And these are expressed, not in plants, but in trees. Themoss is waist-high, the ferns wave twenty feet overhead, the bamboodrapes a feathery fringe by every stream, the cocoa trees grow right upto the road or railroad which sweeps along as on an avenue between them, while at every crossing the white roadway is lined by the majesticsentinels of plantain, coco-nut palm and breadfruit tree. 

Beyond St. Joseph, the ground became a low plain, level and monotonous, and given over to sugar-cane. Near d'Abadie, this crop gave place tococoa, the staple of the center of the island, and this extended throughArima to Sangre Grande, the terminus of the railroad. During the tripStuart's host had enlightened him by an exact and painstakingdescription of the growing of these various crops and the methods oftheir preparation for market. 

At Sangre Grande, the railroad ended and a two-wheeled buggy waswaiting. The planter ordered the East Indian driver to follow in themotor-bus which conveys passengers to Manzanilla, and took the reinshimself, so as to give a place to Stuart. The road had left the level, and passed over low hills and valleys all given over to cocoa trees. 

"See those bottles!" commented Mr. James, pointing to bottles daubedwith paint, bunches of white feathers and similar objects hung on treesat various points of the road. 

"Yes, " answered Stuart, "what are they for?"

"Those are our police!" the planter explained. "This colony is wellgoverned, but planters have had a good deal of trouble keeping thenegroes from stealing. We used to engage a number of watchmen, and thepolice force in this part of the island was increased. It didn't do anygood, you know! Stealing went on just the same. 

"So my partner, down here, went and got hold of the chief Obeah-man orwitch-doctor of the island--paid him a good stiff price, too--and askedhim to put a charm on the plantation. He did it, and those bottles andfeathers are some of the charms. We pay for having them renewed everyyear. It costs a tidy bit, but less than the watchmen and police did. "

"And have the thefts stopped?"

"Absolutely. There hasn't been a shilling's worth of stuff touched sincethe obeah-man was here. "

"But obeah wouldn't have any effect on East Indian coolies, " objectedStuart. 

"Coolies don't steal, " was the terse reply, "those that are Mohammedansdon't, any way. Trinidad negroes do. They're different from theBarbadian negroes, quite different. Obeah seems to be about the onlything they care about. "

"I ran up against some Obeah in Haiti, " remarked Stuart, "though Voodoois stronger there. "

"I never heard of much real Voodoo stuff here in the Windward Islands, "the planter rejoined, "but Obeah plays a big part in negro life. And, asI was just telling you, the whites aren't above using it, sometimes. "

"In Haiti, " responded Stuart, "Father and I once found an Obeah sign inthe road. Father, who knows a lot about those things, read it as a charmto prevent any white man going that way. I thought it was silly to payany attention, but Father made a long detour around it. A week or soafter I heard that a white trader had been driving along that road, andhe drove right over the sign. Half a mile on, his horse took fright, threw him out of the buggy and he was killed. "

The planter shrugged his shoulders. 

"I know, " he said. "It's all right to call it coincidence, but down inthese islands that kind of coincidence happens a bit too often. For me, I'll throw a shilling to an Obeah-man any time I see one, and I won'tplay any tricks with charms if I know enough about them to keep away. "

The buggy jogged along at a smart pace until the shore was reached, andthen set down the beach over the hard wet sand. On the one side heavedthe long rollers of the Atlantic, on the other was the continuous groveof coco-nut palms, thirteen miles long, one of the finest unbrokenstretches in the entire world. 

A hospitable welcome was extended to Stuart at the house of the NarivaCocal, and, after dinner, the planter took him to the shores of theNariva River, not more than twenty or thirty yards from the house, which, at this place, had a bank free of marsh for a distance of perhapsa couple of hundred yards. 

"It was just at a place like this, but a little higher up-stream, " saidthe planter, "that the snake story happened which Kingsley described in'At Last. ' Four girls were bathing in this river, because the surf istoo heavy for sea-bathing, and one of them, who had gone into the waterpartly dressed, felt something clutch at her dress. 

"It was a huge anaconda. 

"The other three girls, with a good deal of pluck, I think, rushed intothe shallow water and grabbed hold of their comrade. The snake did notlet go, but the dress was torn from her body by the wrestle between thestrength of the reptile and that of the four girls. I know one of thesisters quite well. She's an old woman, now, but she lives in SangreGrande, still. "

Turning from the river, Stuart and the planter strolled some distancedown the knife-like sandy ridge between the ocean and the swamp. Thisnarrow ridge, at no point a hundred yards wide and averaging less thanhalf that, contains over 300, 000 palms, and this plantation alone helpsto make Trinidad one of the greatest coco-nut markets of the world. 

"I notice, " said Stuart, anxious to get material for his articles, "thatnearly all your laborers here are East Indian coolies. Are they betterthan negroes?"

"They come here under different conditions, " explained the planter. "Thenegro is free to work or not, as he chooses, but the coolie isindentured. He has to work. He earns less than the negro, but, by thetime we pay his voyage and all the various obligations that we have toundertake for an indentured laborer, the coolie isn't much cheaper to usthan the negro. But, while the negro can do more work in a day than thecoolie, he won't. Moreover, if he feels, after a few days' work, that hehas had enough of it, he just goes away. A Trinidad negro with a poundor two in his pocket won't do a tap of work until the last penny bespent. The coolie will work quietly, steadily, continuously. What ismore, he saves his money. That's bringing about a deuced curioussituation in Trinidad, you know. 

"One of the queer things about the West Indies, as you know yourself, having lived in Cuba, is that there is really no middle class. Here, inTrinidad, there are the wealthy Spanish families and the Englishofficials and planters. The blacks are the laborers. For many decadesthere has been no class between. Now, the East Indians, who came here ascoolies, are beginning to follow the commercial instinct of the east, and to open small shops or to buy land. Hence the negro, who used todespise and look down on the coolie because he worked for even lessmoney, is now finding himself subordinate to an East Indian class whichhas risen to be his superior. Then the East Indians have commencedrice-growing, and now are employing negroes, oversetting the old socialbasis. 

"There's one thing, son, which few people realize in this color questionin the West Indies. That is that the negro has not got the instincts ofa shopkeeper. He doesn't take to trade, ever. If he gets educated, hewants at once to be a doctor, a lawyer, or, still more, a preacher. Butthis is a commercial age, and any race which shows itself unfitted forcommerce is bound to stay the under dog, you know. Trinidad shows that, given equal conditions, the East Indian coolie will rise, the negrowill not. "

The following morning, Mr. James having gone over the books of theplantation with his manager, the two started back for Port-of-Spain. 

"Why don't you live here, Mr. James?" asked the boy. "It's a lovelyspot, in that coco-nut grove, with the sea right at your doors. "

"Climate, my boy, " was the answer. "I told you, on the way over here, that Trinidad is reckoned one of the most prosperous islands of the WestIndies--though it really belongs more to the coast of South America thanit does to the Antilles--but, if you stop to think for a moment, you'llsee that the prosperity of Trinidad is due to the fact that it has awarm, moist, even climate all the year round. That's fine for cocoa andcoco-nuts, but it's not good for humans. The warm moist air of Trinidadis deuced enervating. No, let me go back to Barbados. It may not be asbeautiful--I'll admit that it isn't--but at least there is a north-eastbreeze nearly all the year round to keep me jolly cool. "

The two travelers talked of various subjects, but, once more aboard thetrain at Sangre Grande, the question of Trinidad's wealth recurred toStuart, and he sought further information. 

"You spoke of the island as being prosperous, Mr. James, " he said. "Hasthe Pitch Lake, discovered so many centuries ago by Sir Walter Raleigh, had anything to do with it?"

"Directly, not such a great deal, though, of course, it is a steadysource of income, especially to the Crown. Asphalt is less than atwentieth part of the value of the exports of the island, so, you see, Trinidad would have been rich without that. Indirectly, of course, thePitch Lake has been the means of attracting attention to the island, especially in earlier times. The facts that Trinidad is out of thehurricane track and off the earthquake belt have had a good deal to dowith its prosperity, too, you know. My friend Cecil always declares thatTrinidad and Jamaica together, the two richest of the West Indianislands, ought to run the whole cluster of Caribbean islands, just aslittle England runs the whole British Empire. "

"Who was it said that?" asked Stuart curiously, though his heart wasthumping with excitement. 

"A chap I know, Cecil, Guy Cecil, sort of a globe-trotter. One of thebiggest shareholders in this Pitch Lake. Funny sort of Johnny. Knowhim?"

"I--I think I've met him, " answered the boy. "Tall, eyes a very lightblue, almost colorless, speaks very correct English, fussy about hisclothes and doesn't talk about himself much. "

"That's the very man!" cried the planter, "I couldn't have described himbetter myself. Where did you meet him?"

Stuart answered non-committally and steered the subject into otherchannels, determining within himself that he would certainly go out tothe Pitch Lake, if only with the hope of finding out something moreabout this mysterious Guy Cecil, whose name seemed to be cropping upeverywhere. 

The following day, having seen his friend the planter off on thehomeward bound mail steamer, Stuart prepared for his visit to the famousPitch Lake, though the planter had warned him that he would bedisappointed. 

Going by railway to Fernando, Stuart took a small steamer to La Brea, the shipping point for the asphalt, a town, which, by reason of itsassociation with pitch, has a strange and unnatural air. The beach iscovered with pieces of pitch, encrusted with sand and stones, worn bythe water into the most grotesque shapes and forming so manyresting-places for hundreds of pelicans. Some of these blocks ofhardened asphalt had been polished by the sea until they shone likejewels of jet as large as a table, others, fringed with green seaweed, gave the shore an uncanny appearance of a sea-beach not of this earth. Unlike the universally white towns of the West Indies, La Brea is black. The impress of pitch is everywhere. The pier is caked with the pitch, the pavements are pitch, and, on the only street in the town as Stuartpassed, he saw a black child, sitting on a black boulder of pitch, andplaying with a black doll made of pitch. 

Taking a negro boy as a guide, Stuart started for the famous deposit ofasphalt, about one mile inland. The countryside leading thither was notabsolutely barren, but it was scrawny and dismal. A coarse sandalternated with chunks of black asphalt. A few trees managed to find afoothold here and there, and there was sparse vegetation in patches. 

There was nothing exciting, nothing momentous in the approach to thelake. Nor was there anything startling in the sight of the lake itself. 

Although previously warned, Stuart could not repress an exclamation ofdisappointed surprise at his first view of this famous lake, thegreatest deposit of natural asphalt in the world. 

A circular depression, so slight that it was hard for the boy to realizethat it was a depression at all, had, toward its center, a smaller flat, 115 acres in extent. There were no flames, no sulphurous steam, nosmoke, no bubbling whirls of viscid matter, nothing exciting whatever. The stretch before him resembled nothing so much as mud-flat with thetide out. The dried-up bed of a large park pond, with a small island ortwo of green shrubbery, and some very scrawny palms around the edgewould exactly represent the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad. 

Arriving at the edge, Stuart stepped on the lake with the utmostprecaution, for he had read that the lake was both warm and liquid. Bothwere true. But the warmth was only slight, and the liquidity was sodense that, when a piece of pitch was taken out, it took several hoursfor the slow-moving mass to fill up the hole. 

"The sensation that walking upon this substance gave, " writes Treves, "was no other than that of treading upon the flank of some immensebeast, some Titanic mammoth lying prostrate in a swamp. The surface wasblack, it was dry and minutely wrinkled like an elephant's skin, it wasblood-warm, it was soft and yielded to the tread precisely as one wouldsuppose that an acre of solid flesh would yield. The general impressionwas heightened by certain surface creases, where the hide seemed to beturned in as in the folds behind an elephant's ears. These skin furrowswere filled with water, as if the collapsed animal was perspiring. 

"The heat of the air was great, the light was almost blinding, while theshimmer upon the baked surface, added to the swaying of one's feet insoft places, gave rise to the idea that the mighty beast was stillbreathing, and that its many-acred flank actually moved. "

The task of taking the pitch out of this lake, Stuart found to be asprosaic as the lake itself. Laborers, with picks, broke off largepieces--which showed a dull blue cleavage--while other laborers liftedthe pieces on their heads--the material is light--and carried them totrucks, running on a little railroad on the surface of the lake, andpulled by a cable line. 

The tracks sink into the lake, little by little, and have to be priedup and moved to a new spot every three days, but as they are speciallyconstructed for this, the labor is trifling. The laborers work rightbeside the railroad trucks. It makes no difference where the ditch isdug, from which the asphalt is taken, as the hole left the night beforeis filled again by the following morning. 

It has been estimated that this deposit alone contains over 9, 000, 000tons of asphalt. It is 135 feet deep, and though enormous quantities ofthe stuff have been taken out, the level has not fallen more than tenfeet. 

In the lake are certain small islands, which move around from place toplace, apparently following some little-known currents in the lowerlayers of the pitch. 

Stuart went on to the factory, hoping to get some further informationabout Guy Cecil, but met with a sudden and unexpected rebuff. Not onlydid no one about the place seem to know the name, but they refused toadmit that they recognized the description, and seemed to resent thequestions. 

Trying to change the subject, Stuart commenced to ask questions aboutwhere the asphalt came from, and the manager, who seemed to be aCanadian, turned on the boy, sharply. 

"See here, " he said, "I don't know who you are, nor where you come from. But I'll give a civil answer to a civil question. As for this Cecil, Idon't know anything about him. As for where this asphalt come from, Idon't know, and nobody knows. Some say it's inorganic, some say is fromvegetable deposits of a long time ago, some say it's fish. The chemistsare still scrapping about it. Nobody knows. Now, is there anythingmore?"

The manner of the response was not one to lead Stuart to furtherattempts. He shook his head, and with a curt farewell went back to LaBrea, Fernando and Port de Spain. 

At the hotel he found a telegram. 

 "GET--STORY--PRESENT--CONDITION--ST. PIERRE--MARTINIQUE--FERGUS. "

Two days later Stuart boarded the steamer for Martinique, the Island ofthe Volcano. 

CHAPTER XI

THE MORNING OF DOOM

"Ay, " said the first mate to Stuart, as they paced the bridge on thelittle steamer which was taking the boy to Martinique, "yonder littleisland is St. Lucia, maybe the most beautiful of the West Indies, thoughit isn't safe for folks to wander around much there. "

"Why?" asked Stuart in surprise, "are the negroes mutinous?"

"No, bless ye!" the mate gave a short laugh. "Mighty nice folks in St. Lucia, though Castries, the capital, is a great fever town. It isn't thefolks that are dangerous. Snakes, my bully boy, snakes! It's the home ofthe fer-de-lance. "

"The Yellow Viper?" queried Stuart. 

"The same. An' the name's a good one. It's more viperous than any othersnake of the viper bunch, an' its disposition is mean and yellow rightthrough. Ever see one?"

"No, " said Stuart, "I haven't. I heard there were some in Trinidad, andthere have been a few reported in Cuba. But I guess they're rare there. What do they look like?"

The mate spat freely over the side, while he gathered his powers for adescription. 

"If ye can think of a fish that's been a long time dead, " he suggested, "an' has turned a sort of phosphorescent brown-yellow in decayin', ye'llhave a general idea of the color. The head, like all the vipers, is low, flat an' triangle-shaped. The eye is a bright orange color, an' soshinin' that flashes from it look like sparks of red-yellow fire. I'venever seen them at night, but folks who have, say that in the dark theeyes look like glowin' charcoal. 

"If I had to take a walk through the St. Lucia woods, I'd put on armor, I would! Why, any minute, something you take for a branch, a knot ofliana, a clump of fruit, a hangin' air-plant, may take life an' strike. An' that's all ye'll ever know in this world. "

"There's no cure for it?"

"None. A little while after a fer-de-lance strikes, ye're as dead as ifyou'd been dropped in mid-Atlantic, with a shot tied to your feet. "

"Maybe I'm just as glad I'm not going to land there, " said Stuart, "though I guess it's one of the most famous fighting spots of the world. I read once that for a hundred and fifty years there was never a yearwithout a battle on that island. Seven times it was held by the Englishand seven times by the French. "

"Like enough, " replied the mate. "It's owned by the English now, butCastries is a French town, through and through. But Castries sticks inmy memory for a reason which means more to a deep-water sailor than anyland fightin'. We were lyin' in the harbor at Castries when the _Roddam_came in, ay, more'n twenty years ago. "

"What was the _Roddam_?" queried Stuart, scenting a story. 

"Have ye forgotten, " answered the mate in a return query, "or didn't yeever know? Let me tell ye what the _Roddam_ was!"

"We were lyin' right over there, in Castries Harbor, dischargin'coal--which was carried down by negro women in baskets on theirheads--when we saw creep round the headland of Vigie, where you can seethe old barracks from here, the shape of a steamer. She came slowly, like some wounded an' crippled critter. Clear across the bay we couldhear her screw creakin, ' an' her engines clankin' like they were allpoundin' to pieces. What a sight she was! We looked at her, struck stillourselves an' unable to speak. They talk of a Phantom Ship, but if everanything looked like a Phantom Steamer, the _Roddam_ was that one. 

"From funnel-rim to water-line she was grey an' ghost-like, lookin' likea boat seen in an ugly dream. Every scrap o' paint had been burned fromher sides, or else was hangin' down from the bare iron like flaps o'skin. She had been flayed alive, an' she showed it. Some of her derrickswere gone, the ropes charred an' the wires endin' in blobs o' meltedmetal. The planks of her chart-house were blackened. Her ventilators hadcrumpled into masses without any shape. 

"Laborin' like a critter in pain, she managed to make shallow water, an'a rattle o' chain told o' the droppin' o' the anchor. After that, nothin'! There wasn't a sign o' life aboard. 

"The harbor folks pulled out to take a look at the craft. As they camenear, the smell o' fire an' sulphur met them. A hush, like death, seemedto hang over her. The colored boatmen quit rowin', but the harbor-masterforced them on. Her ladder was still down. The harbor-master climbedaboard. 

"On deck, nothin' moved. The harbor-master stepped down into grey ashes, sinkin' above his knee. With a scream he drew back. The ashes were hot, almost white-hot, below. The light surface ash flew up about him andhalf-suffocated him. His boot half-burned from his foot and chokin', theharbor-master staggered back to the rail for air. 

"No life was to be seen, nothin' but piles o' grey ash, heaped inmounds. Ash was everywhere. From it rose a quivering heat, smellin' o'sulphur an' the Pit. 

"Yet everyone couldn't be dead on this ghost-ship, for someone must ha'steered her into the harbor, an' dropped the anchor. Makin' his wayalong the rail, the harbor-master made his way to where he could reachthe iron ladder goin' to the bridge, an' climbed it. The bridge wasclear of ash, blown free by the mornin' breeze. 

"The chart-house door was open. In it, lyin' across the steam steerin'wheel, was Captain Freeman, unconscious. His face was so blistered thathis eyes were nearly shut. His hair was singed right down to the skull. His hands were raw an' bleedin'. His clothes were scorched intosomething that was black an' brittle. The harbor-master lifted him, an'laid him on the chart-house bunk. "

"What others were there?"

"Pickin' his way, he got to the bow an' found the deck hand who had letdown the anchor. He was blind an' his flesh was crisped and cracking. 

"From below, crawled up four o' the engine-room crew. Most o' the othersaboard lay dead under those heaps o' hot ash on the deck. "

"What had happened?"

"This had happened. The _Roddam_ had been through the eruption of MontPelée, the only ship which escaped o' the eighteen that were in theharbor. She got away only because she made port just fifty-two minutesbefore the eruption, an' had been ordered to the quarantine station, some distance off. "

"Did you see anything of the eruption yourself?"

"We knew that somethin' had happened, even down here in St. Lucia. Itturned almost as black as night for a few minutes, an' our skipper, whowas ashore, said he had felt a slight earthquake. But we saw enough ofit, right after. "

"How?" queried Stuart. 

"We had a lot o' foodstuff in our cargo, some of which was billed forCaracas. But, as soon as we heard the story, our captain told theengineer to get up full steam an' make for Fort-de-France. He knew theowners would have wanted him to go to the relief of the folks ofMartinique. We got there the next day an' saw sights! Sights I can'tever forget!"

The eruption of Mont Pelée and the destruction of the town of St. Pierre, in 1902, over 30, 000 people being killed in the space of threeseconds, was one of the most tragic disasters of history, and the ruinsof St. Pierre are today the most astounding ruins that the worldcontains of so vast and terrible a calamity, outrivaling those ofPompeii. 

The cataclysm did not come without warning. As early as March 23, ascientist ascended the volcano and reported that a small crater was ineruption. By the end of April, to quote from Heilprin, "vast columns ofsteam and ash had been and were being blown out, boiling mud was flowingfrom its sides and terrific rumblings came from its interior. Luridlights hung over the crown at night-time, and lightning flashed indazzling sheets through the cloud-world. What further warnings could anyvolcano give?"

On April 25, a crater broke into a small eruption, throwing out showersof rock-material, which, however, did not reach the town, distant a milefrom the foot of the volcano. On May 5, an avalanche of boiling mud, many acres wide, tumbled down from the volcano, and went roaring alongthe bed of the Rivière Blanche at the rate of a mile a minute. A largesugar factory was engulfed and some 159 lives lost. On May 6 and 7, thesulphur fumes were so strong in the streets that horses, and evenpeople, dropped from suffocation. 

Again--what further warning could any volcano give?

There were other warnings. On April 30, light ashes had begun to fall. On May 1 an excursion was announced for the summit of Mont Pelée forthose who wished to see a volcano in action, but that morning a deepercoat of ashes blanched the streets. The Jardin des Plantes--one of therichest tropical gardens of the West Indies--lay buried beneath a cap ofgray and white. The heights above the city seemed snow-clad. The countryroads were blocked and obliterated, and horses would neither work nortravel. Birds fell in their noiseless flight, smothered by the ash thatsurrounded them, or asphyxiated by poisonous vapors or gases that werebeing poured into the atmosphere. 

"The rain of ashes never ceases, " the local paper wrote on May 3. "Atabout half-past nine, the sun shone forth timidly. The passing ofcarriages is no longer heard in the streets. The wheels are muffled. Many business houses are closed to customers. . . . The excursion whichhad been organized for tomorrow morning cannot take place, the craterbeing absolutely inaccessible. Those who had planned to take part willbe informed on what date this excursion will become possible. "

On May 4 the paper wrote: "The sea is covered in patches with deadbirds. Many lie asphyxiated on the roads. The cattle suffer greatly, asphyxiated by the dust of ashes. The children of the planters wanderaimlessly about the courtyards, with their little donkeys, like humanwrecks. They are no longer black, but white, and look as if hoar frosthad formed upon them. . . . Desolation, aridity and eternal silence prevailover the countryside. "

Next day, May 5, was the day when the mud crater opened. It was followedby an upsurging wave from the ocean, which added to the fear of thepeople, but which receded slowly and with little damage. On the dayfollowing, Pelée was shrouded in a heavy cloud, and ashes and cindersfell over a wide stretch of country. The surface waters had disappeared. Trees had been burned of their leaves. Yet a commission appointed toinvestigate the condition of the volcano made light of it, saying "therelative position of the craters and the valleys, leading towards thesea, enables the statement that the safety of St. Pierre is complete. "

Wednesday, May 7, opened one of the saddest and most terrorizing of themany days that led up to the final eruption. Since four o'clock in themorning, Mont Pelée had been hoarse with its roaring, and vividlightning flashed through its shattered clouds. Thunder rolled over itshead, and lurid glares played across the smoky column which toweredaloft. "Some say, " says Heilprin, "that at this time it showed two fierycrater-mouths, which shone out like fire-filled blast furnaces. Thevolcano seemed prepared for a last effort. 

"When daylight broke through the clouds and cast its softening rays overthe roadstead, another picture of horror rose to the eyes. Theshimmering waters of the open sea were loaded with wreckage of allkinds--islands of débris from field and forest and floating fields ofpumice and jetsam. As far as the eye could reach, it saw but a field ofdesolation. " The river of Basse-Pointe overflowed with a torrent ofblack water, which carried several houses away. Black rains fell. 

Again, and for the last time--could a volcano give any further warning?

Yet the governor, a scientific commission, and the local paper joined inadvising the inhabitants of St. Pierre not to flee the city, the articleclosing with the words, "Mont Pelée presents no more dangers to theinhabitants of St. Pierre than does Vesuvius to those of Naples. "

Next day the governor was dead, the members of the commission were dead, the editor was dead, and the presses on which this article had beenprinted had, in one blast, been fused into a mass of twisted metal. 

Came the 8th of May, 1902. 

Shortly after midnight the thunders ceased for a while, but by fouro'clock, two hours before the shadows of night had lifted, an ominouscloud was seen flowing out to sea, followed in its train by streaks offiery cinders. The sun was barely above the horizon when the roaringbegan again. The Vicar-General describes these sounds as follows: "Idistinguished clearly four kinds of noises; first the clap of thunder, which followed the lightning at intervals of twenty seconds; then themighty muffled detonations of the volcano, like the roaring of manycannon fired simultaneously; third, the continuous rumbling of thecrater, which the inhabitants designated the 'roaring of the lion, ' andthen last, as though furnishing the bass for this gloomy music, the deepnoise of the swelling waters, of all the torrents which take theirsource upon the mountain, generated by an overflow such as has never yetbeen seen. This immense rising of thirty streams at once, without onedrop of water having fallen on the sea-coast, gives some idea of thecataracts which must pour down upon the summit from the storm-cloudsgathered around the crater. "

"Hundreds of agonized people, " writes Heilprin, in his great scientificwork on the catastrophe, "had gathered to their devotions in theCathedral and the Cathedral Square, this being Ascension Day, butprobably there were not many among them who did not feel that the tideof the world had turned, for even through the atmosphere of the saintedbells, the fiery missiles were being hurled to warn of destruction. Thefate of the city and of its inhabitants had already been sealed. 

"The big hand of the clock of the Military Hospital had just reached theminute mark of 7:50 a. M. When a great brown cloud was seen to issue fromthe side of the volcano, followed almost immediately by a cloud ofvapory blackness, which separated from it and took a course downward tothe sea. Deafening detonations from the interior preceded thisappearance, and a lofty white pennant was seen to rise from the summitof the volcano. 

"With wild fury the black cloud rolled down the mountain slope, pressingclosely the contours of the valley along which had previously swept themud-flow that overwhelmed the factory three days before, and spreadingfan-like to the sea. 

"In two minutes, or less, it had reached the doomed city, a flash ofblinding intensity parted its coils, and St. Pierre was ablaze. Theclock of the Military Hospital halted at 7:52 a. M. --a historic time-markamong the ruins, the recorder of one of the greatest catastrophic eventsthat are written in the history of the world. "

Just before the cloud struck, its violet-grey center showed, and theforepart of this was luminous. It struck the town with the fury of atornado of flame. Whirls of fire writhed spirally about it. The mountainhad belched death, death in many forms: death by fire, death bypoisonous gases, death by a super-furnace heat, but, principally, deathby a sudden suffocation, the fiery and flaming cloud having consumed allthe breathable air. 

Whole streets of houses were mown down by the flaming scythe. Wallsthree to four feet in thickness were blown away like paper. Massivemachinery was crumpled up as if it had been clutched in a titanicwhite-hot metal hand. The town was raked by a hurricane of incandescentdust and super-heated gas. 

The violet luminosity, with its writhing serpents of flame, was followedin a second or two by a thousand points of light as the town took fire, followed, almost instantaneously, by a burst of light of every color inthe spectrum, as a thousand substances leaped into combustion, and then, in a moment----

Night!

An impenetrable cloud of smoke and ash absolutely blotted out the sun. The sky was covered. The hills were hidden. The sea was as invisible asat midnight. Even the grayness of the ash gave back no light; there wasnone to give. 

Three seconds had elapsed since the violet-gray cloud of fury struck thetown, but in those three seconds 30, 000 people lay dead, slain withsuch appalling swiftness that none knew their fate. No one had tried toescape. 

The eruption was witnessed, from a distance, by only one trainedobserver, Roger Arnoux, and a translation of his record is, in part, asfollows:

"Having left St. Pierre at about five in the evening (May 7) I waswitness to the following spectacle: Enormous rocks, being clearlydistinguishable, were being projected from the crater to a considerableelevation, so high, indeed, as to occupy a quarter of a minute in theirflight. 

"About eight o'clock of the evening we recognized for the first time, playing about the crater, fixed fires that burned with a brilliant whiteflame. Shortly afterwards, several detonations, similar to those thathad been heard at St. Pierre, were noted coming from the south, whichconfirmed me in my opinion that there already existed a number ofsubmarine craters from which gases were being projected, to explode whencoming in contact with the air. 

"Having retired for the night, at about nine o'clock, I awoke shortlyafterwards in the midst of a suffocating heat and completely bathed inperspiration. . . . I awoke again about eleven thirty-five, having felt atrembling of the earth . . . But again went to sleep, waking at half-pastseven. My first observation was of the crater, which I foundsufficiently calm, the vapors being chased swiftly under pressure of aneast wind. 

"At about eight o'clock, when still watching the crater (M. Arnoux wasthe only man who saw the beginning of the eruption and lived to tell thetale), I noted a small cloud pass out, followed two seconds after by aconsiderable cloud, whose flight to the Pointe de Carbet (beyond thecity) _occupied less than three seconds_, being at the same time alreadyin our zenith, thus showing that it developed almost as rapidly inheight as in length. The vapors were of a violet-gray color andseemingly very dense, for, although endowed with an almost inconceivablypowerful ascensive force, they retained to the zenith their roundedsummits. Innumerable electric scintillations played through the chaos ofvapors, at the same time that the ears were deafened by a frightfulfracas. 

"I had, at this time, an impression that St. Pierre had beendestroyed. . . . As the monster seemed to near us, my people, panic-stricken, ran to a neighboring hillock that dominated the house, begging me to do the same. . . . Hardly had we arrived at the summit whenthe sun was completely veiled, and in its place came almost completeblackness. . . . At this time we observed over St. Pierre, a column offire, estimated to be 1, 200 feet in height, which seemed to be endowedwith the movement of rotation as well as onward movement. " St. Pierrewas no more. 

Rescuers were soon on their way. Twenty-three minutes after the cloudshad been seen rising from Mont Pelée and the cable and telephone lineswere broken, a little steamer left Fort-de-France, the capital. Itreached half-way, then, finding that the rain of stones and ashesthreatened to sink it, returned. The boat started anew at ten o'clockand rounded the point of Carbet. The volcano was shrouded in smoke andashes. For three miles the coast was in flames. Seventeen vessels in theroadstead, two of which were American steamers, burned at anchor. Theheat from this immense conflagration prevented the boat from proceedingand it returned to Fort-de-France, reaching there at one o'clock, bringing the sinister tidings. 

At midday, the Acting Governor of Martinique ordered the _Suchet_ to gowith troops to be under the direction of the Governor, then at St. Pierre. About three o'clock, a party was landed on the shore. The pierwas covered with bodies. The town was all in fire and in ruins. The heatwas such that the landing party could not endure more than three or fourminutes. The Governor was dead also. 

"St. Pierre, " writes a witness on another rescue ship, which arrived atalmost the same moment, "is no more. Its ruins stretch before us, intheir shroud of smoke and ashes, gloomy and silent, a city of the dead. Our eyes seek the inhabitants fleeing distracted, or returning to lookfor the dead. Nothing to be seen. No living soul appears in this desertof desolation, encompassed by appalling silence. . . . Through the cloudsof ashes and of smoke diffused in our atmosphere, the sun breaks wan anddim, as it is never seen in our skies, and throws over the wholepicture a sinister light, suggestive of a world beyond the grave. "

Two of the inhabitants, and two only, escaped; one a negro prisoner, whowas not found until three days later, burned half to death in his prisoncell; and one, a shoemaker, who, by some strange eddy in the all-killinggas, and who was on the very edge of the track of destruction, fled, though others fell dead on every side of him. 

A second eruption, coupled with an earthquake, on May 20, completed thewreckage of the buildings. This outburst was even more violent than thefirst. There was no loss of life, for no one was left to slay. 

Five years later, Sir Frederick Treves visited St. Pierre. "Along thewhole stretch of the bay, " he writes, "there is not one living figure tobe seen, not one sign of human life, not even a poor hut, nor grazingcattle. . . . A generous growth of jungle has spread over the place inthese five years. Rank bushes, and even small trees, make a thicketalong some of the less traversed ways. . . . Over some of the housesluxuriant creepers have spread, while long grass, ferns and forestflowers have filled up many a court and modest lane. "

Twelve years later, a visitor to St. Pierre found a small wooden piererected. A tiny hotel had been built. Huts were clustering under theruins. Several parties were at work clearing away the ruins, but slowly, for the government of the colony would not assist in the work, believing that the region was unsafe. At the time of this visit, MontPelée was still smoking. 

This was the ruined city which Stuart was going to see. On board thesteamer were the two or three books which tell the story of the greateruption, and the boy filled his brain full of the terrible story thathe might better feel the great adventure that the next day should bringhim. 

The steamer reached Fort-de-France in the evening, and the boy found thetown, though ill-lighted, gay. A band was playing in the Plaza, not farfrom the landing place and most of the shops were still open. Morningshowed an even brighter Fort-de-France, for, though when St. Pierre wasin its glory, Fort-de-France was the lesser town, the capital now is thecenter of the commercial prosperity of the island. For this, however, Stuart had little regard. Sunrise found him on the little steamer whichleaves daily for St. Pierre. 

The journey was not long, three hours along a coast of steep cliffs withverdant mountains above. Small fishing hamlets, half-hidden behindcoco-nut palms, appeared in every cove. The steamer passed Carbet, thattown on the edge of the great eruptive flood, which had its owndeath-list, and they turned the point of land into the harbor of St. Pierre. 

Before the boy's eyes rose the Mountain of Destruction, sullen, twisted, wrinkled and still menacing, not all silent yet. The hills around weregreen, and verdure spread over the country once deep in volcanic ash. But Mont Pelée was brown and bald still. 

Nineteen years had passed since the eruption, but St. Pierre had notrecovered. At first sight, from the sea, the town gave a slightimpression of being rebuilt. But this was only the strange combinationof old ruins and modern fishing huts. The handsome stone wharves stillstood, but no vessels lay beside them. 

The little steamer slowed and tied up at a tiny wooden pier. A statue, symbolical of St. Pierre in her agony, had been erected on the end ofthe pier. The boy landed, and walked slowly along the frail woodenstructure, to take in the scene as it presented itself to him. 

Alas, for St. Pierre! As Lafcadio Hearn described it--"the quaint, whimsical, wonderfully colored little town, the sweetest, queerest, darlingest little city in the Antilles. . . . Walls are lemon color, quaintbalconies and lattices are green. Palm trees rise from courts andgardens into the warm blue sky, indescribably blue, that appears almostto touch the feathery heads of them. And all things within and withoutthe yellow vista are steeped in a sunshine electrically white, in aradiance so powerful that it lends even to the pavement of basalt theglitter of silver ore. 

"Everywhere rushes mountain water--cool and crystal--clear, washing thestreets; from time to time you come to some public fountain flinging asilvery column to the sun. . . . And often you will note, in the course ofa walk, little drinking fountains contrived in the angle of a building, or in the thick walls bordering the bulwarks or enclosing publicsquares; glittering threads of water spurting through lion-lips ofstone. "

Alas for St. Pierre!

Above the pier but one street had been partly restored, and, at everygap, the boy's gaze encountered gray ruins. The ash, poured out by themountain in its vast upheaval, has made a rich soil. To Stuart's eyes, the town was a town of dreams, of great stone staircases that led tonowhere, of high archways that gave upon a waste. The entrance hall ofthe great Cathedral, once one of the finest in the West Indies, stillleads to the high altar, but that finds its home in a little woodenstructure with a tin roof, shrinking in what was once a corner of theapse. 

Built as a lean-to in the corner of what had once been a small, butstrongly-built house was a store, a very small store, outside the doorof which a crippled negro was sitting. Thinking that this might be oneof the old-timers of St. Pierre, Stuart stopped and bought a smalltrinket, partly as a memento, partly as a means of getting intoconversation. 

"But yes, Monsieur, " answered the storekeeper, "it was my wife and I--weescaped. My wife, she had been sent into Morne Rouge, that very morning, with a message from her mistress. Me, I was working on the road, notmore than a mile away. I saw nothing of it, Monsieur. About half-pastseven that morning (twenty-two minutes, therefore, before the finaleruption) a shower of stones fell where I was working. One fell on myback, and left me crippled, as you see. But my four children, ah!Monsieur, they sleep here, somewhere!"

He waved his hand toward the riot of ruin and foliage which now marksthe city which once prided itself on being called "the gayest littlecity in the West Indies. "

"Yet you have come back!" exclaimed Stuart. 

"But yes, Monsieur, what would you? It pleased God that I should be bornhere, that my children should be taken away from me here; and, maybe, that I should die here, too. "

"You are not afraid that Mont Pelée will begin again?"

The negro shrugged his shoulders. 

"It is my home, Monsieur, " he said simply. "Better a home which is sadthan the place of a stranger which is gay. But we hope, Monsieur, thatsome day the government of Martinique will accept a parole of goodconduct from the Great Eater of Lives"--he pointed to Mont Pelée--"andgive us back our town again. "

Next morning, studying the life of the little town, Stuart found thatmany others shared the view of the crippled negro. The littlemarket-place on the Place Bertin, though lacking any shelter frompouring rain or blazing sun, was crowded with three or four hundredmarket women. Daily the little steamer takes a cargo from St. Pierre, for the ash from the volcano has enriched the soil, and the planters aregrowing wealthy. There are many more little houses and thatched hutstucked into corners of the ruins than appear at first sight, and a hotelhas been built for the tourists who visit the strange spot. 

The crater in Mont Pelée is silent now; the great vent which hurledwhite-hot rocks, incandescent dust and mephitic gases, is now coveredwith a thick green shrubbery, only here and there do small smoke-holesemit a light sulphurous vapor; but the great mountain, treeless, wrinkled, implacable, seemed to Stuart to throw a solemn shadow ofthreat upon the town. The secret of St. Pierre, as Stuart wrote to hispaper, "lies in the hope of its inhabitants, but its real future lies inthe parole of good conduct from the Great Eater of Human Lives, MontPelée. "

CHAPTER XII

A CORSAIR'S DEATH

There is not a corner of the world which is more full of historicmemories than is the West Indies. Dominica, the next island which Stuartpassed after he had left Martinique, besides being one of the scenicglories of the world, described as "a tabernacle for the sun, a shrineof a thousand spires, rising tier above tier, in one exquisite fabric ofgreen, purple and grey, " has many claims to fame. Here, the cannibalCaribs were so fierce that for 255 years they defied the successivefleets of Spaniards, French and English who tried to take possession ofthe island. Some three hundred Caribs still dwell upon the island upon areservation provided by the government. The warriors no longer make war, and fish has taken the place of the flesh of their enemies as a staplediet. 

Under the cliffs of Dominica is a memory of the Civil War, for there theConfederate vessel _Alabama_ finally escaped the Federal man-of-war_Iroquois_. A few miles further north, between Dominica and Guadeloupe, in The Saints Passage, was fought, in 1782, the great sea-battle betweenRodney and De Grasse, which ended in the decisive victory of theEnglish over the French and gave Britain the mastery of the CaribbeanSea. It ranks as one of the great historic sea-fights of the world. 

The next island on the direct line to the north, St. Kitts, is notdestitute of fame. As Cecil had told Stuart, St. Kitts or St. Christopher was first a home for buccaneers, and later one of the keysto the military occupation of the West Indies. Its neighbor, St. Nevis, together with other claims to romance, has a special interest to theUnited States in that Alexander Hamilton--perhaps one of the greatest ofAmerican statesmen--was born there. 

Near St. Kitts lies Antigua, where the _Most Blessed Trinity_--despiteher name, one of the most famous pirate craft afloat--settled after herbloody cruises. Its captain was Bartholomew Sharp, described as "anacrid-looking villain whose scarred face had been tanned to the color ofold brandy, whose shaggy brows were black with gunpowder, and whose longhair, half singed off in a recent fight, was tied up in a nun's wimple. He was dressed in the long embroidered coat of a Spanish grandee, and, as there was a bullet hole in the back of the garment, it may besurmised that the previous owner had come to a violent end. His hose ofwhite silk were as dirty as the deck, his shoe buckles were of dullsilver. "

Sharp, with 330 buccaneers, had left the West Indies in April, 1760. They landed on the mainland, and, crossing the isthmus, made forPanama. Having secured canoes, they attacked the Spanish fleet lying atPerico, an island off Panama City, and, after one of the most desperatefights recorded in the annals of piracy, they took all the ships, including the _Most Blessed Trinity_. Then followed a long record ofsuccessful piracy, of battle, murder and sudden death, of mutiny andslaughter grim and great. Sharp, who, with all his crimes, was as good anavigator as he was reckless a fighter, sailed the _Most BlessedTrinity_ with his crew of desperadoes the whole length of South America, rounded the Horn and, after eighteen months of adventure, peril andhardship, reached the West Indies again. 

"The log of the voyage, " writes Treves, "affords lurid reading. Itrecords how they landed and took towns, how they filled the littlemarket squares with corpses, how they pillaged the churches, ransackedthe houses and then committed the trembling places to the flames. 

"It tells how they tortured frenzied men until, in their agony, theytold of hiding places where gold was buried; how they spent an unholyChristmas at Juan Fernandez; how, in a little island cove, they fishedwith a greasy lead for golden pieces which Drake is believed to havethrown overboard for want of carrying room. It gives account of a cargoof sugar and wine, of tallow and hides, of bars of silver and pieces ofeight, of altar chalices and ladies' trinkets, of scented laces, and ofrings torn from the clenched and still warm fingers of the dead. 

"The 'valiant commander' had lost many of his company on the dangerousvoyage. Some had died in battle; others had mumbled out their lives inthe delirium of fever, sunstroke or drink; certain poor souls, withracked joints and bleeding backs, were crouching in Spanish prisons; onehad been marooned on a desert island in the Southern Pacific Ocean. " Atthe last, Sharp turned over the ship to the remainder of his crew andset sail, rich and respected (!) for England. 

On the way from St. Kitts to St. Thomas, Stuart passed the two strangeislands of St. Eustatius and Saba, remnants of the once great Dutchpower in the West Indies. Statia, as the first island is generallycalled, is a decadent spot, its commerce fallen to nothing, thewarehouses along the sea-front of its only town, in ruins. Yet once, strange as it may seem, for a few brief months, Statia became the sceneof a wild commercial orgy, and the place where once was held "the moststupendous auction in the history of the universe. "

It happened thus: When the American Revolulutionary War broke out, England being already at war with France, commercial affairs in the WestIndies became complicated by the fact that the Spanish, the French andthe English, all enacted trading restrictions so stringent thatpractically every port in the West Indies was closed. The Dutch, seizingthe opportunity, made Statia a free port. Immediately, the whole ofFrench, English, Spanish, Dutch and American trade was thrown upon thetiny beach of Fort Oranje. 

More than that, Statia became the center for contraband of war. All theother islands took advantage of this. Statia became a huge arsenal. American privateers and blockade-runners were convoyed by Dutchmen-of-war, which, of course, could not be attacked. Smugglers wereamply provided with Dutch papers. Goods poured in from Europe every dayin the week. Rich owners of neighboring islands, not knowing how theFrench-English strife might turn out, sent their valuables to Statia forsafe keeping. The little island became a treasure-house. 

At times more than a hundred merchant vessels could be seen swinging totheir anchors in the roadstead. A mushroom town appeared as by magic. Warehouses rose by scores. The beach was hidden by piles of boxes, bagsand bales for which no storeroom could be found. Merchants came from allports, especially the Jews and Levantines, who, since the beginning oftime, have been the trade-rovers of the sea. Neither by day nor by nightdid the Babel of commerce cease. Unlike other West Indian towns, wheresuch a condition led to gaiety and pleasure, Fort Oranje retained itsDutch character. It was a hysteria, but a hysteria of buying and sellingalone. 

Then, one fine day, February 3, 1781, Rodney came down with a Britishfleet and captured Fort Oranje and all that it contained. There werepolitical complications involved, but Rodney bothered little about that. Fort Oranje was a menace to British power. Rodney took it withoutremorse, appropriated the more than $20, 000, 000 worth of goods lying onthe beach and the warehouses, and the 150 merchantmen, which, on thatday, were lying in the bay. Jews and Levantines were stripped to theskin and sent packing. The Dutch surrendered and took their medicinephlegmatically. The French, as open enemies, were allowed to depart withcourtesy. 

Then came the great auction. Without reserve, without remorse, over$20, 000, 000 worth of goods were put up for what they would fetch. Boxes, crates, bales and bags melted away like snow before the sun. Warehousesbursting with goods became but empty shells. Traders' booths wereabandoned, one by one. Just for a few months the commercial debauchlasted, then Rodney sailed away. Since then, the selling on the beach ofStatia has been confined to a little sugar and a few yams. 

For the United States, the little fort above Fort Oranje has a historicmemory. From the old cannon, still in position on that fort, was firedthe first foreign salute to the Stars and Stripes, the first salutewhich recognized the United States as a sovereign nation. 

It was on the 16th of November, 1776, that the brig _Andrea Doria_, fourteen guns, third of the infant American navy of five vessels, underthe command of Josiah Robinson, sailed into the open roadstead of St. Eustatius, and dropped anchor almost under the guns of Fort Oranje. 

"She could have chosen no more fitting name, " writes Fenger, "than thatof the famous townsman of Columbus. . . . The _Andrea Doria_ may haveattracted but little attention as she appeared in the offing . . . But, with the quick eyes of seafarers, the guests of Howard's Tavern hadprobably left their rum for a moment to have their first glimpse of astrange flag which they all knew must be that of the new republic. 

"Abraham Ravené, commandant of the fort, lowered the red-white-and-blueflag of Holland in recognition of the American ship. In return, the_Andrea Doria_ fired a salute. 

"This put the commandant in a quandary. Anchored not far from the_Andrea Doria_ was a British ship. The enmity of the British forHolland, and especially against Statia, was no secret. 

"In order to shift the responsibility, Ravené went to consult De Graeff, the governor. De Graeff had already seen the _Andrea Doria_, for Ravenémet him in the streets of the Upper Town. A clever lawyer and a keenbusiness man, the governor had already made up his mind when Ravenéspoke. 

"'Two guns less than the national salute, '" was the order. 

"And, so, the United States was for the first time recognized as anation by this salute of eleven guns. 

"For this act, De Graeff was subsequently recalled to Holland, but hewas reinstated as Governor of Statia, and held that position when theisland was taken by Rodney in 1781. The Dutch made no apology toEngland. "

Saba, which lies close to Statia, depends for its interest on itslocation. It is but an old volcanic crater, sticking up out of the sea, in the interior of which a town has been built. As a writer describesit, "if the citizens of this town--which is most fitly calledBottom--wish to look at the sea, they must climb to the rim of thecrater, as flies would crawl to the edge of a tea-cup, and look over. They will see the ocean directly below them at the foot of a precipicesome 1, 300 feet high. To go down to the sea it is necessary to take apath with a slope like the roof of a house, and to descend the Ladder, an appalling stair on the side of a cliff marked at the steepest part bysteps cut out of the face of the rock. "

This strange town of Bottom is built with a heavy wall all round it, tosave it from the torrents which stream down the inside slopes of thecrater during a rain. Its population is mainly white, flaxen-haireddescendants of the Dutch. 

More amazing than all, most of the inhabitants are shipbuilders, but theships, when built, have to be let down by ropes over the side of thecliff. These fishing smacks are not only built in a crater, but on anisland which has neither beach, harbor, landing stage nor safe anchoringground, where no timber is produced, where no iron is to be found, andwhere cordage is not made. The island has no more facilities for theshipbuilding trade than a lighthouse on a rock in the middle of the sea. 

[Illustration: ABOVE THE HOARSE SHOUTS OF RUFFIANS AND JACK-TARS, ROSETEACH'S MURDEROUS WAR CRY. ]

Passing Saba, the steamer went on to her next port of call, St. Thomas. Here was seen the influence of another European power. Barbados andTrinidad are English; Martinique, French; Statia and Saba, Dutch; butSt. Thomas is Danish. It is the chief of the Virgin Islands, andrejoices in a saintlier name than many of its companions which are knownas "Rum Island, " "Dead Man's Chest, " "Drowned Island, " "Money Rock, ""Cutlass Isle" and so forth, the naming of which shows buccaneerauthorship. Even in the town of Charlotte Amalia, the capital of St. Thomas, the stamp of the pirate is strong, for two of the hills abovethe city are marked by the ruins of old stone buildings, one of which iscalled "Bluebeard's Castle, " and "Blackbeard's Castle, " the other. Itwas once, no doubt, one of the many ports of call of that Nero ofpirates, Blackbeard Edward Teach. 

Cecil's description of the buccaneers had greatly stimulated Stuart'sinterest in pirate stories, and, rightly thinking that he could sell astory to his paper by new photographs of "Blackbeard's Castle" and by aretelling of the last fight of that savage scoundrel, he set himself tofind out what was known of this career of this "Chiefest and MostUnlovely of all the Pyrates" as he is called in a volume written by oneof his contemporaries. 

In appearance he was as fierce and repulsive as in character. He was oflarge size, powerfully built, hairy, with a mane-like beard which, blackas his heart, grew up to his very eyes. This beard he twisted into fourlong tails, tied with ribbons, two of which he tucked behind hisoutstanding ears, and two over his shoulders. His hair was like a matand grew low over his forehead. In fact, little of the skin of his facewas visible, his fierce eyes glaring from a visage like that of ababoon. In fighting, it was his custom to stick lighted fuses under hishat, the glare of which, reflected in his jet-like eyes, greatlyincreased the ferocity of his appearance. 

Teach was an execrable rascal, who ruled his ship by terror. The worstof his crew admitted him master of horror as well as of men. It was hiscustom ever and anon to shoot a member of his crew, whenever the fancypleased him, in order that they should remember that he was captain. 

Blackbeard is famous in the annals of piracy for his idea of a pleasantentertainment. One afternoon, when his ship was lying becalmed, thepirates found the time pass heavily. They had polished their weaponstill they shone like silver. They had gambled until one-half of thecompany was swollen with plunder and the other half, penniless andsavage. They had fought until there was nothing left to fight about, andit was too hot to sleep. 

At this, Teach, hatless and shoeless, and, says his biographer, "alittle flushed with drink"--as a man might be who spent most of hiswaking hours swigging pure rum--stumbled up on deck and made a proposalto his bored companions. 

"I'm a better man than any o' you alive, an' I'll be a better man whenwe all go below. Here's for proving it!"

At which he routed up half a dozen of the most hardened of the crew, kicked them down into the hold, joined them himself and closed thehatches. There in the close, hot hold, smelling of a thousand odors, they set fire to "several pots full of brimstone and other inflammablematters" and did their best to reproduce what they thought to be theatmosphere of the Pit. 

One by one, the rest gave in and burst for the comparatively free air ofthe deck, but Teach's ugly head was the last to come up the hatch, andhis pride thereon was inordinate. It was the surest road to theCaptain's good favors to remind him of his prowess in that stench-holeon a tropic afternoon. 

Teach's death was worthy of his life. Lieutenant Maynard of H. M. S. _Pearl_ learned that Teach was resting in a quiet cove near OkracokeInlet, not far from Hatteras, N. C. He followed the pirate in a smallsloop. Teach ran his craft ashore. 

Maynard was determined to get alongside the pirate, so with desperatehaste he began to throw his ballast overboard. More than that, he stavedin every water cask, until, feeling that he had enough freeboard, heslipped his anchor, set his mainsail and jib, and bore down upon thestranded sea robber. 

As he came on, Teach, with fuses glowing under his hat, hailed him, and, standing on the taffrail, defied him and drank to his bloody end in agoblet of rum. . . . Teach, surrounded by his sullen and villainous gang, shrieked out the chorus of a sea song as the sloop drew near and, whenshe had drifted close enough, he pelted her deck with grenades. 

At this moment, the two vessels touched, whereupon Teach and his crew, with hideous yells, and a great gleam of cutlass blades, leapt upon thesloop's deck. Through the smoke cloud the awful figure of the pirateemerged, making for Maynard. At the same time, the men hidden in thesloop scrambled up from below, and the riot of the fight began. 

As Teach and Maynard met, they both fired at each other, point blank. The lieutenant dodged, but the robber was hit in the face, and the bloodwas soon dripping from his beard, the ends of which were, as usual, tucked up over his ears. 

There was no time to fumble with pistols now. So they fought withcutlasses. Teach, spitting the blood from his mouth, swore that he wouldhack Maynard's soul from his body, but his opponent was too fine anadept with the sword to be easily disposed of. It was a fearful duel, atrial of the robber's immense strength against the officer's deftness. 

They chased each other about the deck, stumbling across dead bodies, knocking down snarling men, who, clutched together, were fighting withknives. Ever through the mirk could be seen the pirate's grinning teethand his evil eyes lighted by the burning and smoking fuses on eitherside of them, ever above the groans of the wounded and the hoarse shoutsof ruffians and jack tars, rose Teach's murderous war cry. 

At last, Maynard, defending himself from a terrific blow, had his swordblade broken off at the hilt. Now was the pirate's chance. He aimed aslash at Maynard. The lieutenant put up the remnant of his sword andTeach's blow hacked off his fingers. Had the fight been left to the duelbetween the two, Maynard had not a second to live. But, just as thepirate's blow fell, one of the navy men brought his cutlass down uponthe back of the pirate's neck, half severing it. Teach, too enraged torealize it was his death blow, turned on the man and cut him to thedeck. 

The current of the fight changed. From all sides the jack tars, whodared not close with the pirate chief, fired pistols at him. The deckswere slippery with blood. Still fighting, Teach kicked off his shoes, to get a better hold of the planks. His back was to the bulwarks. Sixmen were attacking him at once. 

Panting horribly, and roaring curses still, Teach, with his drippingcutlass, kept them all at bay. He had received twenty-five wounds, fiveof which were from bullets. His whole body was red. The half-severedhead could not be held straight, but some incredible will power enabledhim to twist his chin upwards, so that, to the last, his eyes glaredwith the fierce joy of battle, and the lips, already stiffening, smileddefiantly. 

The six men drew back, aghast that a creature so wounded could stilllive and move, but Teach drew a pistol and was cocking it, when hiseyelids closed slowly, as though he were going to sleep, and he fellback on the railing, dead. 

So, in fitting manner, perished the last of the great pirates of theSpanish Main. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE HUNGRY SHARK

"Hyar, sah! Please don' you go t'rowin' nuffin to de sharks, not 'roun'dese waters, anyhow. "

"Why?" asked Stuart in return, smiling at the grave face of the negrosteward on board the steamer taking him from Porto Rico to Jamaica. Hisstay at Porto Rico had been brief, for he found a telegram awaiting himfrom Fergus, bidding him hurry at once to Kingston. 

"No, sah, " repeated the negro, "dar witch-sharks in dese waters, debbil-sharks, too. Folks do say dem ol' buccaneers, when dey died, wasso bad dat eben de Bad Place couldn't take 'em. Now, dey's sharks, a-swimmin' to an' fro, an' lookin' for gol', like dem yar pirates usedter do. "

"Oh, come, Sam, you don't believe that!" protested the boy. "What coulda shark do with gold, if he had it?"

"Sho's you livin', Sah, " came the response, "I done see two gol' ringsan' a purse taken out'n the inside of a shark. An' you know how, rightin dese hyar waters, a shark swallowed some papers, an' it was thefindin' o' dose papers what stopped a lot o' trouble between GreatBritain an' the United States, yes, Sah!"

The gift of silver crossing a palm has other powers besides that ofinspiring a fortune-teller. It can inspire a story-teller, as well. Stuart, scenting a story which he could send to the paper from Kingston, put half-a-crown where he thought it would do most good, namely, in thesteward's palm and heard the strange (and absolutely true and authentic)story of the shark's papers. 

"Yes, Sah, " he began, "I know jes' how that was, 'cause my gran'pap, hewas a porter in de Jamaica Institute, an' when I was a small shaver Iused to go wid him in the mornin's when he was sweepin' up, and I usedto help him dust de cases. Yes, Sah. Bime by, when I got big enough toread, I got a lot o' my eddication from dose cases, yes, Sah!

"This hyar story begins dis way. On July 3, 1799--I remember de datespersackly--a brig, called de _Nancy_, lef' Baltimore for Curacao. Herowners were Germans, but 'Merican citizens, yes, Sah. Her cargo wass'posed to be dry goods, provisions an' lumber, but dere was a good dealmore aboard her, guns, powder an' what they call contraband, ef you knowjes' what that is. I don't rightly. "

"I do, " agreed Stuart. "Go ahead. "

"Well, Sah, dis hyar brig _Nancy_, havin' stopped at Port-au-Prince, started on down de coast, when, strikin' a heavy blow, she los' hermaintopmast. She was makin' for a little island, not far 'way, to makesome repairs, when she was captured by H. M. S. _Sparrow_, a cutterbelongin' to H. M. S. _Abergavenny_, de British flagship stationed at PortRoyal. De _Sparrow_ was commanded by Lieutenant Hugh Wylie, and dis hyarWylie sent her in with anoder prize, a Spanish one, to Port Royal. So, naterally, Wylie brings a suit for salvage against de _Nancy_, bein' anenemy vessel. "

"But where does the shark come in?" queried Stuart, growing impatient. 

"Jes' you wait a minute, Sah!" the negro responded, "I bring um in deshark pretty quick. De owners of de _Nancy_, dey come to court an' showpapers that de _Nancy_ never was no 'Merican ship at all, an' datLieutenant Wylie, he make one great big mistake in capturin' dis hyarbrig. 

"But, what you t'ink, Sah? Right at dat moment, up steps in decourt-room, Lieutenant Fitton, of H. M. S. _Ferret_, another cutterbelongin' to the _Abergavenny_ an' hands the judge some papers. 

"'Your Honor, ' he says, 'these are the true papers of the brig _Nancy_. Those you have before you are false. '

"'Where did you find these papers?' ask de judge. 

"'In the belly of a shark, My Lord, ' answers Lieutenant Fitton, clearan' loud. 

"For de sake, Sah, dem Germans must ha' turn green! In de belly ob ashark, Yah, ha-ha!" And the steward roared in white-toothed laughter. 

"But how were they found there?" came the boy's next question. 

"Yes, Sah, I was jes' comin' to that. Dis hyar Fitton, wid one cutter, was a-cruisin' together wid Wylie, in de other cutter, when Wylie brokeaway to take de _Nancy_. 

"Bein' nigh breakfast time, Fitton signals to Wylie to come tobreakfast. Wylie, he right busy wid _Nancy_ an' can't come right away. Fitton, fishin' while he waitin' for Wylie, catch a small shark. Dey cuthim open, jes' to see what he got inside, an' dar, right smack in debelly, dey see a bundle o' papers. 

"'Hi!' says Fitton, 'dat somet'ing important!' and he keep de papers an'tow de shark to Port Royal. "

"I suppose, " said Stuart, "the captain of the _Nancy_ must have thrownthe papers overboard. But why should the shark swallow them? I knowsharks will turn over and make ready to swallow most things, but theydon't take them in, as a rule, unless they're eatable. "

"Yes, Sah, quite right, Sah, but dar was a reason. De papers, Sah, hadbeen hidden in a pork barrel on board de _Nancy_, an' de shark must ha't'ought dey smelt good. When Fitton showed dese hyar papers in court, deexperts what were called in on de case said dat dere was grease on 'emwhat wouldn't come from no shark's stomach. No, Sah. 

"Dey figured, right den an' dar, dat de grease must ha' been on depapers, fust. So dey started lookin' on board de _Nancy_ an', for desake, dey found, right in a pork barrel, a lot more papers, all writtenin German an' showin' a reg'lar plot for privateerin' against the UnitedStates. 

"Dose papers, Sah, dey're right thar in de Institute in Jamaica, wid aletter from de official, who was in charge ob de case, ober a hundredyears ago. In de United Service Museum, in London, is de head of deshark what swallowed de papers. I reckon, Sah, dat was de fust time data shark ever was a witness in a court!"

And, with a loud laugh, the steward went to respond to the call ofanother of the passengers. 

Strange as was the story of the shark swallowing the papers and beingforced to give them up again, still stranger was the story that Stuartheard from one of the passengers. This tale, equally authentic, was ofan occurrence that happened even earlier, in that famous town of PortRoyal, which, in the long ago days, was the English buccaneer center, even as Tortugas was the center of the French sea-rovers. 

This was the story of Lewis Galdy, a merchant of Port Royal, French-bornand a man of substance, who went through one of the most extraordinaryexperiences that has ever happened to a human being. 

He was walking down the narrow street of that buccaneer town, on June 7, 1692, when the whole city and countryside was shaken by a terrificearthquake shock. The earth opened under the merchant's feet and hedropped into the abyss. He lost consciousness, yet, in a semi-comatosestate, felt a second great wrenching of the earth, which heaved himupwards. Water roared about his ears, and he was at the point ofdrowning, when, suddenly, he found himself swimming in the sea, half-a-mile from land. 

As the place where he had been walking was fully three hundred yardsinland, he had been carried in the bowels of the earth three-quarters ofa mile before being thrown forth. A boat picked him up, and he lived forforty-seven years after his extraordinary escape. 

Jamaica, indeed, has been the prey of earthquakes, the most serious ofwhich wrecked the city of Kingston, in 1907. The shocks lasted tenseconds, and the town of 46, 000 inhabitants was a ruin. The death listreached nearly a thousand. From this shock, however, as Stuart found, the city has recovered bravely, largely due to the lighter system ofbuilding common to British islands, and all places which have anAmerican impress, while in French, Dutch and Danish islands, buildingsare more solidly constructed. Frame houses, however, are less damaged byearthquake than are stone structures. 

There was, however, little opportunity for Stuart to make tours inJamaica or to work out any articles for his "Color Question" series. Aregistered letter from the paper awaited the boy in Kingston, thereading of which he concluded with a long, low whistle. 

That night, without attracting attention, Stuart left the city on foot, taking neither tramway nor railroad, and made a long night march. Theroads were steep, but the cool air compensated for that difficulty, andhaving spent a long time on board ship the boy was glad to stretch hislegs. On the further side of Spanish Town he saw what he sought, arickety automobile under a lean-to-shed. 

He hurried to the negro owner, who was lolling on the verandah. 

"I want to go to Buff Bay, " he said. "How soon can you get me there?"

"De road ain' none too good, Sah, " the Jamaican answered, "your bes' wayis to take de train f'm Spanish Town. Dat'll land you right in BuffBay. "

"I don't want to, " answered Stuart, making up the first excuse that cameto mind, "I get train-sick. Can't your car make it?"

The boy knew that there is nothing in the world that so much touches aman's pride as to have his car slighted, no matter whether it be thecraziest kettle on wheels or a powerful racer. 

"Make it? Yes, Sah!" The exclamation was emphatic. "I can have you inthar by noon. "

Business arrangements were rapidly concluded, and in a few minutes theystarted out, Stuart having borrowed an old straw hat from the driver, inorder, as he said, that he could take a good sleep under it, whichindeed, he did. But his main reason was disguise. 

The negro looked back at his passenger once or twice, and muttered, "Train-sick? Huh! Looks more like ter me he's in pickle wid de police!Wonder if I didn't ought to say somet'ing?"

Then a remembrance of some of his own earlier days came to him, and hechuckled. 

"Fo' de sake!" he said. "I wouldn' want to tell all I ever did!"

And he drove on through Linfield, without summoning the guardians of thelaw. 

Stuart, unconscious how near he had been to an unpleasant delay, slepton. Questioning would have been awkward, search would have been worse, for, in the pocket of his jacket, was Fergus's letter he had received inKingston, which closed with the words, "Get to the Mole St. Nicholas with utmost speed! Spare no expense, butgo secretly!"

That this bore some new development in the Great Plot, there was nodoubting, and the letter had told him to be sure to leave Kingstonwithout letting Cecil catch a glimpse of him. That meant that Cecil wasstill in Kingston. In that case, what could the other conspirators bedoing without him?

Towards noon, a whiff of salt air wakened Stuart. He stirred, rubbed hiseyes and looked round. 

"The north shore, eh!" he exclaimed on seeing the sea. 

"Yes, Sah! Annotta Bay, Sah!"

"Do you know anyone around these parts?"

"Fo' de sake, yes, Sah! I was born in dese parts. I jes' went to SpanishTown a few years ago, when my wife's folks died. "

"Do you know anyone who has a motor boat?"

"You want to buy one?"

"Not unless I have to. Do you happen to know of any?"

"Well, Sah, " said the negro cautiously, "thar's a preacher here what hasone, but--but--he's a mighty careful man is Brother Fliss, an'----"

Stuart, refreshed from his sleep, grasped the hitch at once. 

"You think I'm in trouble and running from the police, eh? Not a bit ofit! Here, run up to this preacher's. I'll convince him, in a minute. "

A little further on, the machine turned to the left, and just as itturned off, a racing car flashed by. Something about one of the figureswas familiar. 

"Whose car was that?"

The driver turned and stared at the cloud of dust. 

"I didn't rightly see, it might ha' been----" He stopped. "I'll tell youwhar you can get a boat, Sah!" he suggested. "Mr. Cecil, he keeps onedown at his place a bit down de road. "

"Cecil!" Stuart had to control himself to keep from shouting the name. "Has he a place on this coast?"

"Yes, Sah; fine place, Sah, pretty place. Awful nice man, Mr. Cecil. He'll lend you de boat, for nuffin', likely. Brother Fliss, good man, you un'erstand, but he stick close to de money. "

"Let's go there, just the same, " said Stuart, "I don't want to be underobligations. I'd rather pay my way. "

The negro shrugged his shoulders and, in a few minutes, the car stoppedat the preacher's house. 

As the driver had suggested, Brother Fliss "stick close to de money" andhis charge was high. He was an intensely loyal British subject, and aneven more loyal Jamaican, and when Stuart showed his card from the paperand at the same suggested that he needed this help in order to trace upa plot against Jamaica, the preacher was so willing that he wouldalmost--but not quite--have lent the boat free. 

Being afraid that the automobile driver might talk, if he returned toSpanish Town, and thus overset all the secrecy that Stuart flatteredhimself he had so far maintained, the boy suggested that the negro comealong in the boat. This suggestion was at once accepted, for the mysteryof the affair had greatly excited the Jamaican's curiosity. 

The preacher, himself, received the suggestion with approval. Usually--for the craft, though, sturdy, was a small one--he was his ownsteersman and engineer. Now, he could enjoy the luxury of a crew, andthe driver, who was a fairly good mechanic, was quite competent tohandle the small two-cylinder engine. 

So far as the boy was concerned, he had another reason. The quest mightbe dangerous. Undoubtedly Cesar Leborge and Manuel Polliovo would bethere. Equally certainly, Guy Cecil, who had protected him before, wouldnot. A companion would be of aid in a pinch. 

And it was all so dark, so mysterious, so incomprehensible! He hadlearned nothing new about the plot. He had no documents with which toconfront the conspirators. He had no protection against these two men, one of whom, he knew, had vowed to kill him. 

The motor boat glided out on the waters north of Jamaica, on her way tothat grim passage-way between Cuba and Haiti, that key to the Caribbean, which is guarded by the Mole St. Nicholas. 

Yet, withal, Stuart had one protector. Behind him stood the power of aNew York newspaper, and, with that, he felt he had the power of theUnited States. There is no flinching, no desertion in the great army ofnews-gatherers. There should be none in him. 

With no support but that, with nothing to guide him but his faith in thepaper that sent him forth, Stuart set his face to the shore of thatsemi-savage land, on the beach of which he expected to find his foesawaiting him. 

CHAPTER XIV

TRAPPED!

All that night the little motor boat chugged on. She was small for solong a sea-passage, but the preacher knew her ways well. Many a journeyhad he taken to the Caymans and other Jamaican possessions in theinterests of his faith. 

In the night-watches, Stuart grew to have a strong respect for him, forthe preacher was one in whom the missionary spirit burned strongly, andhe was as sincere as he was simple. Each of the three on board tookturns to sleep, leaving two to manage the boat. Stuart got a double doseof sleep, for the preacher, seeing that the boy was tired, ran the craftalone during the second part of his watch. 

Dawn found them in the Windward Passage, with the Mole of St. Nicholason the starboard bow. They slowed down for a wash and a bite ofbreakfast, and then the preacher, with a manner which showed it to behabitual, offered a morning prayer. 

The Mole St. Nicholas, at its southern end, has some small settlements, but Stuart felt sure that it could not be here that he was to land. Theycruised along the shore a while, and, on an isolated point, saw an oldhalf-ruined jetty, with four figures standing there. As the boat drewnearer, Stuart recognized them as Manuel Polliovo, Cesar Leborge and twoCacos guerillas, armed with rifles and machetes. 

"Are you afraid to follow me?" queried Stuart to the negro who haddriven the automobile. 

"'Fraid of dem Haiti niggers? No, Sah. I'm a Jamaican!"

This pride of race among certain negroes--not always rightly valuedamong the whites--had struck Stuart before. Indeed, he had done aspecial article on the subject during the voyage on the steamer. 

Reaching the wharf, Stuart sprang ashore. The Jamaican at once sought tofollow him, but the two Cacos tribesmen stepped forward with upliftedmachetes. The odds were too great and Stuart's ally fell back. 

"It is very kind of you to come and pay us a visit!" mocked Manuel, asStuart stepped upon the wharf. "We prefer, however, to have you alone. We do not know your guests. "

"You know me, then?"

"I knew the ragged horse-boy to be Stuart Garfield, all the way on theroad to Millot and the Citadel, " the Cuban purred. "I cannotcongratulate you on your cleverness. The disguise was very poor. "

Stuart thrust forward his chin aggressively, but no retort came tomind. 

"I missed you, on the return journey, " Manuel continued. 

"Yes, " the boy answered. "I came down another way. "

"Perhaps you borrowed a pair of wings from the Englishman?"

Stuart made no reply. 

But this ironic fencing was not to Leborge's taste. He broke in, abruptly, "You spy on us once, Yes! You spy on us again, Yes! You spy no more, No!"

He made a rough gesture, at which one of the Cacos dashed upon the boy, pinned his arms to his sides and harshly, but deftly, tied him securelywith a rope. This done, the Haitian took the boy's small revolver fromhis pocket and cast it contemptuously on the ground. 

"The white carries a pistol, Yes! But he does not even know how to shootit!"

The phrase irritated Stuart, but he had sense enough to keep still. As amatter of fact, he was a fairly good shot, but, with four to one againsthim, any attempt at violence would be useless. Besides, Stuart had notlost heart. He had landed, in the very teeth of his foes, confident thatFergus would never have directed him to go to the Mole St. Nicholas, unless the editor had cause. The boy's only cue was to awaitdevelopments. 

At this juncture, the Jamaican preacher, with a good deal of courage, aswell as dignity, rose in the boat. He thrust aside, as unimportant, themachete of the Caco who threatened him, and the assumption of authoritytook the guerilla aback. Quietly, and with perfect coolness, he walkedup to the Haitian general. A little to Stuart's surprise, he spoke theHaitian dialect perfectly. 

"You're goin' to untie de ropes 'round dat boy, Yes!" he declared, "an'if you're wise, you do it quick. De Good Book say--'Dose who slay by desword, shall be slain by de sword, demselbes, ' Yes! I tell you, dose datties oders up, is goin' to be tied up demselbes, Yes!"

"What are you doin' here?" demanded Leborge, with an oath. 

"I's a minister ob de gospel, " said the preacher, standing his groundwithout a quaver, in face of the threatening aspect of the giantHaitian, "an' I tell you"--he pointed a finger accusingly--"dat, forebery oath you make hyar in de face ob de sun, you is goin' to pay, an'pay heabily, before dat sun go down!

"You's a big nigger, " the preacher went on, his voice taking the highdrone of prophetic utterance, "an' you's all cobered wit' gol' lace. DeGood Book say--'Hab no respec' for dem dat wears fine apparel. ' No!'Deir garments shall be mof-eaten, deir gol' an' silver shall becankered, an' de worm'--hear, you nigger!--'de worm, shall hab 'em'!"

Leborge, superstitious like all the Haitian negroes, cowered before thepreacher who advanced on him with shaking finger. 

But Manuel was of another stripe. 

He strode forward, put a lean but sinewy hand on the preacher's shoulderand twisted him round, with a gesture as though he would hurl him intothe water, when there came a sharp, "Spat!"

The Cuban's hat leaped from his head and fluttered slowly to the ground, a bullet-hole through the crown. 

Manuel stared at it, his jaw dropping. 

"White man----" the preacher began. 

The Cuban took no heed. The shot, he figured, could have come from noone but the negro in the boat, and he wheeled on him, flashing hisrevolver. As he turned to the sea, however, he saw a motor boat comingat terrific speed into the harbor. He took one glance at it. 

"We've got to get rid of the boy before he comes!" he cried. 

Leborge, with a wide grin, gave a nod of approval, and Manuel's gun cameslowly to the shoulder, for cat-like, he wanted to torture the boybefore he fired. 

Quicker than his grave manner would have seemed to forecast, thepreacher stepped fairly between the Cuban and his victim. 

"De Good Book say----" he began, but Manuel gave him a push. There was aslight struggle and a flash. 

The preacher fell. 

Manuel turned on Stuart, who had tried to catch the falling man, forgetting for the instant that his hands were tied. He stumbled, andthe pistol centered on his heart. 

Came another, "Spat!"

A shrill scream rang out. Manuel's gun fell to the ground, suddenlyreddened with blood. The Cuban's hand had been shot through. 

Clumsily kneeling, Stuart put his ear to the wounded man's heart. It wasbeating strongly. The bullet seemed to have struck the collar bone andglanced off, stunning the nerves, but not doing serious injury. 

For a moment, the four men stood dazed. 

Whence came these bullets that made no sound? Could the Englishman beshooting? They stared out to sea. 

The "chug-chug" of the motor boat was deafening, now. It stopped, suddenly, and, standing in the bow, the figure of Cecil could be plainlyseen. He held no gun in his hand, however. 

Never was the Englishman's quiet power more strongly shown than in thefact that, in this tense moment, the conspirators waited till he landed. Leborge shuffled his feet uneasily. Manuel, his face twisted with pain, and holding his wounded arm, glared at his fellow-conspirator, undauntedly. 

"My friend, " said Cecil to him, calmly, "I have many times instructedyou that nothing is to be done until I give the word. "

The Cuban cursed, but made no other answer. 

"As for you, " the Englishman continued, turning to Leborge, "I have toldyou before that the time to quarrel about the sharing of the spoils wasafter the spoils were won. Why have you posted men to murder Manuel andme, in the granadilla wood, between here and Cap Haitien?"

The giant would have liked to lie, but Cecil's determined gaze was fullon him, and he flinched beneath it, as a wild beast flinches before itstamer. 

"If you had waited for me, " the calm voice went on, "I might have helpedyou to escape, but now----"

He raised his hat and passed his hand over his hair, as though the sunhad given him a headache. 

At the same moment, as though this gesture had been a signal, from thelow bushes a hundred yards away burst a squad of a dozen men, rifles atthe "ready, " in the uniform of American marines. 

Manuel and Leborge cast wild glances around, seeking some place to flee, but there was none. They were cut off. 

"Quick, Cecil!" they cried, together. And Leborge added, "Your boat! Sheis fast!"

"Not as fast as a rifle bullet, " was the quiet answer. 

At the double the Marines came over the scrubby ground, and, runningbeside the officer in command was a figure that Stuart recognized--hisfather!

The officer of the Marines came up. 

"Seize them!" he said briefly. 

The boys in blue disarmed and bound the four, one of the Marines freeingStuart's arms the while. The second he was free, Stuart sprang forwardand grasped his father's hand with a squeeze that made the older manwince. 

"Father!" he cried. "It's really you!"

The American official clapped the boy on the shoulder with praise and alook of pride. 

"Reckon that high-powered air rifle came in handy, eh?" he answered. 

"Was it you, Father, who did the shooting?"

"No, not me. Wish I could shoot like that! We brought along the cracksharp-shooter of the camp. "

One of the Marines looked up and grinned. 

"This chap, " the official continued, "could hit the hind leg of a flythat's scratching himself on a post fifty yards away!"

Then, to Stuart's enormous surprise, he turned to the prisoners with anair of authority. 

"In the name of the United States, " he said, "you are arrested. You, Cesar Leborge, for having plotted against American authority in Haiti, while holding rank in the Haitian Army; also for having accepted a bribefrom other Haitian officials for betraying your fellow-conspirator; alsofor having given money and issued orders to a band of Cacos to postthemselves in ambush with the purpose and intent of murdering Haitianand American citizens. 

"You, Manuel Polliovo, " he continued, turning to the second prisoner, "are arrested on a Cuban warrant for the murder of one Gonzales Elivo, aguard at the prison from which you escaped two years ago; also upon acharge of assault and attempted murder against this negro minister, forwhich there are several witnesses present; also on a charge of attemptedmurder of Stuart Garfield, son of an American citizen; also on a Haitianwarrant for conspiring against the peace of the Republic. "

Stuart stood with wide-open eyes, watching the dénouement. He steppedback, and waited to see what would be said to Cecil, who, so far, hadremained motionless. 

The Marines, at a word from their officer, turned to go, taking theprisoners with them. 

"And Cecil, Father?" the boy asked, in a low voice. 

"Mr. Guy Cecil, my son, " replied the American official, "is my very goodfriend, as well as yours, and the very good friend of the United States. No man knows more of the inner workings of affairs in the West Indies, and he has the confidence of his Government. 

"It was through him that I was first advised of this plot to seize thenorthern peninsula of Haiti, from the Citadel of La Ferrière to the MoleSt. Nicholas, to make of this stretch a small republic as was done atPanama, and to sell the Mole St. Nicholas, as a naval base, to a certainEuropean power which is seeking to regain its lost prestige. 

"It was a pretty plot, and your investigations, my boy, will help tobring the criminals to judgment. 

"Also, I think, Mr. Cecil will release you from your promise not to tellthe secret, and you can write your story to the press. It will be ascoop! Only----" he smiled--"don't say too much about the crimes of thearch-conspirator, Guy Cecil!"

"Then he's not a conspirator, at all!" cried Stuart, half-sorry andhalf-glad. 

"Rather, an ally, " his father answered, "an ally with me, just as hisgovernment is in alliance with our government, an alliance among theEnglish-speaking peoples to keep the peace of the world. "

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: Several typographical errors in the originaledition have been corrected. The following sentences are as theyoriginally appeared, with corrections noted in brackets. ]

 Chapter I

 "But, it is you, Yes!" he cried, using the Haitian idom [idiom] with its perpetual recurrence of "Yes" and "No, " and went on, "and where is Monsieur your father?"

 Chapter II

 To the Cafê [Café] de l'Opéra. Go down the street and keep a few steps in front. "

 Manuel turned into the Cafê [Café] de l'Opéra, a tumble-down frame shack with a corrugated iron roof, to order a cooling drink and to puzzle out this utterly baffling mystery. 

 The Cacos may be described as Haitian patriots or revolutionists, devotees of serpent and voodoo worship, loosely organized into a secret guerille [guerilla] army. 

 Chapter V

 ["]A privateer on the Caribbean and the Spanish Main, in those days, was a man who had sufficient money or sufficient reputation to secure a ship and a crew with which to wage war against the enemies of his country. 

 Chapter VI

 ["]What happens? I can tell you what happens in this province of Oriente. 

 Chapter VII

 It had not occured [occurred] to him that the consular official would not be as excited as himself. He spluttered exclamations. 

 Chapter VIII

 The greater part of the island seemed, to the boy, uttterly [utterly] unlike any place he had seen in the tropics. 

 Chapter IX

 Spech [Speech] again became impossible. 

 Chapter X

 There are many more little houses and thatched huts tucked into corner [corners] of the ruins than appear at first sight, and a hotel has been built for the tourists who visit the strange spot.